


Northern Brides

by DarrkeThoughts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-01-28 02:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 89,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12595880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarrkeThoughts/pseuds/DarrkeThoughts
Summary: Marriage and politics go hand in hand in the seven kingdoms. What might have happened if some of the parents took a little more active role in finding good matches for their children?Tywin Lannister starts the ball rolling by sending his youngest son in search of a bride sometime shortly before the death of Jon Aryn. Tyrion's quest will push the Starks to start thinking about advantageous matches for their children even before the King's visit and the effects will ripple out from there.Where the books and TV show are different I will be following the books, mostly... occasionally I may slip in something from the show, or from another fic because it's become part of my head cannon.I'm writing this for NaNoWriMo 2017 and I hope to cover roughly the same time-frame as the first book in 50,000+ words this month, so here should be pretty regular updates between now and then. UPDATE: NaNoWriMo is over and I managed to get 50,000 words written, some are posted here already, the other half fill up an outline for about 70 chapters and bits and pieces throughout the story. I'm hoping to finish a chapter or two a week. It's going to be somewhat longer than 50,000 words when it's done.





	1. Casterly Rock (Tywin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin decides it's time for Tyrion to find a bride.

 

Tywin fumed in his solar. He had sent for Tyrion an hour ago and was still waiting. That imp would be the death of him yet. Not that his other two children had turned out much better. His daughter was turning into a drunken fool just like her husband and his son still refused to leave the Kingsguard, despite having broken his vows.

Robert would have done him a favor if he had the boy beheaded, but he “rewarded” him instead by keeping him close so he could watch him torment his sister instead. Keeping Jaime alive had only given Tywin false hope of a suitable heir for the Rock all these years.

Tywin was not getting any younger though and it was time to face the fact that Jaime was not interested in becoming Lord of the Rock. Tyrion was more than interested, but he’d never let that dwarf have the Rock. A grandchild, however, might serve.

He had also held out some hope for another son from Cersei, but it seemed her child-bearing days were done as well. Tommen was likely to inherit Storm’s End as his uncle Renly didn’t seem capable of fathering any children.

Which left Tyrion to hold the Rock, something that simply could not be tolerated.

The door finally opened and Tywin heard Tyrion being deposited into the room by his guards.

“You wanted to speak to me, father?” Tyrion asked in that annoying tone he had.

Tywin kept his back to the dwarf while he counted to ten to regain his composure. Then, turning, barked out, “You’re late!”

“Sorry, father, I didn’t realize you would want to see me today. I made other plans.”

Tywin looked at the creature the gods gave him in place of a son. He was unshaven, half-drunk, and disheveled. “They found you in a brothel…”

“Where else?” the Imp simply grinned, shrugged and showed no trace of remorse.

“It’s time you quit making a fool of yourself and bringing shame on our house.” Tywin started. Then stopped, fuming again as he realized that the dwarf was mouthing the words along with him.

“Yes, yes, you’ve mentioned that I’m a fool and bring shame on our house a few times before. I remember that part. Was there anything else you wanted to say?”

Tywin closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued in a calmer tone, almost whispering.

“There is. And if you think you can keep your mouth shut for more than a minute I will tell you my plans.”

Tyrion just stared at him with a close-lipped grin on his face and raised the eyebrows on his hideous forehead. It was no wonder he patronized the brothels, Tywin wondered how even with all the gold in Casterly Rock Tyrion could find a woman. Perhaps they had blind whores in the brothels.

“It’s time for you to find yourself a wife.”

That would be a whore of a different kind, and a smart young woman might realize that it would be worth all the gold in Casterly Rock to overlook the dwarfs many failings and marry him anyway. Or perhaps one of their father’s would see the sense in the match. Young girls were notorious for being overly romantic about marriage these days.

“I thought arranging marriages was your job, father.” The Imp replied, seeming slightly off-balance.

Tywin allowed himself an inner smile to have won that round of verbal sparring with his unwanted get. It was rare to leave Tyrion at a loss for a quick comeback.

“You will go North and meet the eligible young women there.” Tywin turned away from Tyrion while he expounded on his plans. “You will meet with the noble families on your way north. They will give you hospitality as a member of our house, of course. There are likely to be a number of Frey women who need matches. I would prefer you do not choose one of them unless you have no other alternatives. Their father has always been a greedy bastard and I’d prefer not give him the satisfaction of another Lannister match.”

Tywin paused another moment thinking with regret that he had been too young to stop his sister from being given to the Freys.

“There may be a better choice at Winterfell. I understand the oldest daughter there is quite charming and nearly old enough to wed. The Starks have always had a reputation for honor that would make them better allies than the Freys.”

Turning back to Tyrion, Tywin asked, “Do you understand?”

Tyrion looked as sober as his father had ever seen him. “Yes, father. But why do you want to make a match now? You haven’t shown any interest in my happiness before?”

“I’m not interested in your happiness!” roared Tywin. “I am interested in the continued success of our house.”

Pacing, Tywin considered how much of his thoughts to share with his youngest offspring.

“Your sister does not seem likely to have any more children by the King.” he started.

Tyrion just looked amused.

“Tommen might inherit the Rock, but not if Renly has no heirs. From what I saw at court, that does not seem likely to happen.” Checking Tyrion’s reaction again and seeing his son start to put the pieces together, Tywin continued, “Jaime continues to refuse to leave the Kingsguard, and that leaves you. You will never inherit the Rock. You are a vile little creature and I will not permit you to tear down everything I have built. However, if you had a child of your own, and it took after it’s mother rather than yourself…”

Tywin let the promise hang in the dead air.

Tyrion looked quite sober and for once seemed to be considering what his father said. No japes. No amused looks.

“I see.” He said. “When would you like me to leave on this quest?”

Tywin's lip twitched a little at the victory. “You can wait until tomorrow morning, make yourself clean and sober in the meantime. You will need to be at your best to have any hope of persuading even a Northern savage to share your bed.”

“And if being clean and sober isn’t enough to persuade some northern girl to be my bride?”

“If you make it to the wall without finding anyone suitable, then I suggest you join the Night’s Watch. There certainly won’t be anything for you here if you return alone.”

 

 

 


	2. Winterfell (Tyrion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion rides with the Starks to see the King's Justice done.

 

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a bitter draft that chased away any thoughts of sleep in Tyrion’s head. He had arrived late the night before, well after the Starks had retired to their beds, and on the heels of a messenger from some small holdfast in the hills. The men would leave at daybreak to see the king’s justice done. Tyrion would ride out with them, eager to witness one of the barbaric rights of the North with his own eyes.

When he was younger, Tyrion had wanted to see the world. He had considered the free cities a good place to begin, and certainly warmer than Winterfell. But he was strangely happy to be traveling in the North in spite of the cold winds. There was much to see in a kingdom that was as big as the other six combined, and many fair maidens to meet. Not to mention even more less than fair maidens.

Tyrion grinned as he pictured all the high-born girls he had met in the past few months. He never approached their parents directly, of course, but only told them he was on a quest for a bride, possibly the next Lady of Casterly Rock. He let them think he was searching on behalf of his brother, or perhaps his father, always keeping the bride groom’s identity a bit of a mystery. He found the reception was much warmer that way.

It was too late last night to mention anything about his business to Lord Stark. Tyrion was grateful that the messenger bore the weight of having disturbed the Lord’s sleep. Tyrion wondered if the disruption would influence the Lord’s judgment in the case at hand. Perhaps it would be best to be caught at a more convenient time of day, say the mid-day meal, if one were a criminal and hoped to keep one’s head?

He rode near the rear of the party next to Winterfell’s maester, listening as the younger boys chattered between themselves. There was eager excitement in the young voices as they talked of wildings and a King-beyond-the-Wall. It all sounded a bit like crib tales to Tyrion, yet the maester was whispering to him as they rode, lending credence to the words.

Maester Luwin was kind enough to point out who was who as they rode. There was Lord Stark, the one Tyrion would have been able to identify by his position, but he was grateful to the maester for sorting out the boys and men who rode with them. The further north he rode, the harder it was to tell noble from peasant only by the clothes they wore.

The oldest boy was not in fact the heir to Winterfell as Tyrion had been speculating, but Theon Greyjoy, a hostage from what Tyrion had heard about the rebellion. But this young man from the Iron Islands didn’t look that much different from the Starks, and was joking with Robb, the Lord’s oldest true born son as if they were brothers. In truth, the heir looked more like a Tully than a Stark and less like a Stark than the iron born boy.

The most like his father though was a boy who proved to be his bastard. And again, riding along next to the true born sons, advising the youngest, a boy by the name of Bran, as if he were a trusted member of the family. These northerners were strange folk indeed.

Tyrion had spent the last nine years overseeing the drains of Casterly Rock, a less than desirable task that kept him busy and out of sight. That was how his father saw fit to treat his true born son, and his heir, just because he had been born a dwarf. Tyrion could only imagine how his father would treat a hostage or an actual bastard. Not as a member of the family, certainly. It was rumored that her sister had one of Robert's bastards killed for the sin of being born at Casterly Rock. Tyrion suspected she would gladly have had the rest of them killed as well, if they had been born somewhere she had enough influence.

The North was a pleasant change. In fact, if it wasn’t so cold he would be tempted to stay there. There was a likely maid at Castle Cerwyn, several years older than himself and a bit plump for his tastes, but not entirely unwilling. It was too bad he wasn’t the sort of son-in-law that some Lord would want to marry to his only child so that he could inherit a keep of his own. However, sooner or later, the Lords would suspect he was interested in their daughters personally. And then the rumors would rise from the dust and suddenly he would hear whispers about tails and horns and other deformities. Once or twice he even though he overheard something about marrying a whore.

Lies, all of them. He never had a tail, nor horns, nor wings, nor any of the other extra parts the stories would have given him. It was unfortunate, if he had, he might have won a few points with the more curious girls by showing them. Unfortunately, all his real deformities were too easily seen even with his clothes on. And he had been avoiding the brothels on the way north as well, hoping to put a damper on the other rumors which were, of course, well grounded in fact.

He did enjoy the company of women. And paying them good gold was the only way he had discovered to encourage them to enjoy his company too.

Tyrion was feeling quite sorry for himself by the time they reached the holdfast and found the man, bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall. He was old and scrawny, taller only than himself and the boy, Bran. Dressed all in black rags, he was missing both ears and a finger.

“Frostbite,” the maester whispered when he notice Tyrion looking.

“A wilding?” asked Tyrion.

“From the black clothes, I’d guess a deserter,” returned the maester.

Ah, a potential brother then, if his quest failed. Tyrion looked a the man closer, wondering if he wouldn’t prefer Fat Walda. Her father only wanted her weight in gold in return for giving her a chance to become the Lady of Casterly Rock. And Tyrion suspected the old weasel knew exactly who the future husband was likely to be. His father would not be pleased, of course, but it was perhaps better than joining a brotherhood that made men as sorry as this one run away.

Lord Stark cut the man down and questions were asked. It was hard to follow his answers as he raved about wildings and Others and blue-eyed brothers of the watch. In the end, it seemed the man was, by his own confession, a member of the night’s watch.

None of the northmen seemed to believe the tales of the Others. Not that Tyrion thought the Others were real, but it seemed an unlikely story to tell when one was facing a death sentence. Why not claim his brothers in black had turned on him and tried to kill him. He was defending himself. Maybe that he was chasing some wildings who crossed the wall, but had only just lost them as he was captured?

Tyrion could think of a number of more believable stories that might sway the northmen to spare his life, even if it meant being sent back to the Wall.

In the end, all the talk did not seem to impress Lord Stark one way or the other. His face was impassive as he sat on his horse and listened to the ravings of the deserter. In the end, it all came down to a confession and finally the command was given and the man dragged to an ironwood stump in the center of the square.

Lord Stark dismounted then and the iron born hostage brought him his sword. Some hostage, it was a wicked blade as long as a normal man was tall, and with the look of Valyrian steel. He doubted his father would arm a hostage like that. Tyrion could not help but imagine his own head on that stump as the sword came down and took the man’s head in a single swift stroke.

Blood sprayed out across the snow and Tyrion considered his future. He wondered if they also beheaded the men who visited that brothel up near the wall. He hoped not. They couldn’t. How would they have anyone left to guard the wall if they did? Some vows simply weren’t meant to be kept.

The snows were soaking up the blood when the laughing hostage kicked the head like he thought it was amusing.

“Ass,” muttered the bastard just loud enough for Tyrion to overhear. Indeed, Tyrion found himself taking a dislike to the young man at that moment, still imagining the head his own. He shuddered. The north was a cruel place, no doubt.

The ride back to Winterfell was colder than the ride out. The sun was high in the air, but it did little to warm the day. The maester had run out of helpful introductions as well, so Tyrion rode closer to the Starks, trying to overhear their conversation.

Robb, the heir, claimed the man had died bravely, but the bastard disagreed saying the man was dead of fear. They appeared to be about the same age, but Robb was thick and sturdy with his Tully coloring while Jon Snow was taller and leaner with more of a Stark look.

It amused Tyrion to see them disagree. And no one told the bastard to keep his thoughts to himself or raised an objection when he challenged his half-brother to a race. Tyrion imagined how this day would have gone if his father had been the Lord serving justice and he and his brother Jaime the ones arguing.

Not everything in the north was cruel.

With the older boys galloping off ahead, Lord Stark turned to his younger son and asked his opinion, “What do you think, Bran?”

“Is it possible to be brave if you’re afraid?” the lad asked.

“It’s the only time a man can be brave.”

Tyrion stifled a laugh. Even a dwarf could be brave if that was true.

“Do you understand why I did it?” Lord Stark asked.

“He was a wilding,” Bran said. “They carry off women and sell them to the Others.”

The Others again. Tyrion had heard the stories when he was young, once or twice. He supposed that living nearer the wall the stories would be more common. Something useful to frighten children into behaving. At the Rock, the stories had been about raiders from the Iron Islands and various sea creatures from mermaids to krakens.

Lord Stark was explaining why deserters were so dangerous. Tyrion thought the logic flawed. Was it the deserter who was dangerous, or the law that said the penalty was death that made them so desperate?

“But you mistake me. The question was not why the man had to die, but why I must do it.”

“The king uses a headsman, as did the Targaryens before him.” Tyrion interrupted, without thinking. He had been wondering why the Lord dirtied his hands that way, and forgot he was trying to remain unobtrusive.

The Lord shot him a look that clearly indicated he was not intended to be part of this conversation, but included him in the answer anyway.

“Our way is the old way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.”

Tyrion pondered those words while Lord Stark tutored his son on the duties of a Lord. It was not the way his father saw things.

That was the best part of his journey so far. There were so many people in the world, and so many opinions. It was refreshing to find so many people who did not see the world in quite the same light as Tywin Lannister.

Each little insight made Tyrion a little happier.

 


	3. King's Landing (Cersei)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King's Landing, shortly after the death of Jon Aryn

 

“And why would I want to visit the North?” she sneered. “Haven’t you heard it’s cold up there? It snows, even in the summer. It’s probably snowing now.”

“I thought you would be grateful to escape the heat of King’s Landing for once.” replied the King with an irritating chuckle.

“Well, I wouldn’t. The children and I will stay here. You can do whatever you want.” Cersei turned her back on her husband and looked out over the city. It would be nice to have him gone. For as long as he was, she could rule the seven kingdoms in his place. Maybe he would die and never come back.

The thought of Robert’s death put a smile on Cersei’s face.

She sipped her wine waiting for the sounds of her husband retreating. He could run off to the North for a few months in a vain attempt to make his best friend, the brother of that… dead girl… his hand. She would stay here and spend time with her brother and her children and show the seven kingdoms what it was like to have a truly good ruler. Maybe the people would be so grateful to her they would have another rebellion and make her queen – even if he didn’t die.

“Stay here if you want, but the children will be coming with me. I want them to see the North and meet the Starks. We won’t miss you, or your complaints, while we’re gone.” Robert said as he turned to leave.

Suddenly, the sound of the King’s retreating steps was not what she wanted to hear.

“Don’t you walk out on me!” she whirled around to face him. “The children will go nowhere without me!”

“Your choice, woman. The children and I will be leaving in the morning.”

Cersei screamed and threw her wine glass at him. “Get out!”

Cersei seethed. This was Pycelle’s fault. He had killed the old man. If he hadn’t killed him outright, then at the very least he had not saved him. And that was the same thing really.

Not that Cersei cared a whit about Jon Aryn, dead or alive. He was a decent enough hand. Robert loved him like a father, and that helped him keep her husband in line, most of the time. What she couldn’t forget or forgive was that Jon Aryn was the one that schemed with her father at the end of the rebellion to make her Robert’s wife in the first place.

It had seemed like a good plan at the time. Jon Aryn said she was more beautiful than Lyanna Stark had any hope of becoming. And her father wanted to make her Queen. Cersei had wanted to marry Rhaegar even more than she wanted to be queen, but he had died on the Trident. Robert killed him.

At the time Robert was a fine warrior, tall and handsome. He could have had any women in his bed that he wanted. Cersei might have grown to love him.

She shouldn't fault either of the older men for making their deal. How were they to know that Robert would find his way into half the beds in the kingdom and be too drunk most of the time to find hers?

She had never told them that every time Robert took his pleasure with her he cried out that other girl’s name. The dead Stark girl. She had let Rhaegar go, why couldn’t Robert let go of Lyanna?

She had taken her revenge with her children though. Her children, not the King’s, in spite of what he thought. She reveled in every comment he made about “his” children, knowing that he was not actually their father.

No one knew. And it was so unfair. The whole world thought the children were her husband’s. And that gave him the right to take them on this trip with or without her consent.

Completely unfair.

Then again, the children did take up her time, and she would undoubtedly be busy ruling the realm in Robert’s absence. It’s not like he would allow anything to happen to them. He was possessive if nothing else. And there would be the Kingsguard to watch over them too.

She drank deeply from her glass of wine and set aside her anger. She would allow him this. At least one of the Kingsguard would have to stay behind to guard her. It would be Jaime, her brother.

It was likely she would not even have to ask Robert to choose him. Robert had never really wanted her brother on the Kingsguard. All the times her father had tried to get Jaime released from his vows, it was Jaime who refused, not Robert.

But it was time for Jaime to grow up. They needed a new hand to replace Jon Aryn and Jaime would be so much better for the job than Ned Stark. Jaime would listen to her. Ned would be the dutiful friend, but what good could come from listening to a drunken old man like her husband?

Ned Stark might be able to stand up to Robert and keep him in line as well as Jon Aryn had, but she doubted he wanted to leave his home and family to come to King’s Landing. It would be a wasted trip.

Yes. She would stay. Jaime would stay with her. And she would persuade him to accept the next offer to be released from the Kingsguard. She would succeed where even her father had failed. He would see that she was his true heir then.

Cersei went to bed happy and woke at some god-forsaken hour to pounding on her door. The door burst open before she even had a chance to get out of bed, let alone dress.

“Get up sweet sister!” called Jaime.

He was always far too happy in the mornings.

“Why should I? Why don’t you come to bed instead?” Cersei raised the bed covers just enough to flash her naked body in invitation.

“We are leaving at dawn, Cersei. Didn’t Robert tell you?”

Cersei laughed. “I’m not leaving, brother. We are staying in King’s Landing while my husband goes on his wild snark hunt.”

“I believe he is looking for a new hand, not a grumpkin,” Jaime replied.

“I know what he’s looking for. I’m not going.” Cersei was angry at being woken up so early and still groggy from sleep. “You aren’t going either.”

“I am going. You should to. Your children are already settled in the wheelhouse. Would you give them leave to travel without you?”

“Do I have a choice?” Cersei was feeling more awake now as yesterday’s anger flooded back.

“Yes. You can go look after them, like a good mother would.”

“And you can stay here with me. Robert thinks they are his, he would not let them come to harm.”

“He might discipline them.” Jaime eased himself onto her bed. “Cersei, you need to be there,” he said gently.

“I need you in my bed. If Robert and the children are gone there would be nothing to prevent us from being together as often as we like.”

“Nothing but all the little birds in King’s Landing. You know we can’t be seen together like that.” He stood up, all energy an eagerness. Cersei liked that about him, except when he got ideas that she didn’t give him.

“I’m staying.” She said, pulling the covers up and over her head as she rolled over to go back to sleep. He would yield.

“I’m going. Someone has to look after the children.”

She heard him leave, but knew he would be there when she was ready to wake up. He never let her down.

 


	4. Winterfell (Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn is surprised by her unexpected guests.

 

“My Lady, you have a guest.”

Catelyn looked up from her sewing at the maester’s words. “Who is it?”

“My Lady,” began Maester Luwin, seeming to hesitate. “Tyrion Lannister arrived at Winterfell last night.”

“Why wasn’t I told immediately?” Catelyn snapped. Last night? They had left a guest unattended for nearly a day? And a Lannister guest? The Lannisters were one of the seven great houses in Weseros. It wouldn’t be polite to ignore any guest for so long, but to leave someone as important as a Lannister waiting nearly a day to be acknowledged was unthinkable. Catelyn was at a loss to know how the servants could have neglected to tell her about their guests and let her just sit there sewing all afternoon!

She knew her husband had no love for the Lannisters, but he wouldn’t instruct the servants to insult one this way, would he?

“He rode out with your Lord husband and his party this morning. I did not see the need to wake you then. However, the party has returned and perhaps it is time to see what brings a Lannister this far north?”

“Past time,” Catelyn sat her sewing aside briskly as she stood. “Where is he?”

“He’s with the children and their wolf pups.”

Catelyn stopped half-way to the door, looking at Maester Luwin in disbelief. “Their... wolf pups?”

“We found them on the way back, my Lady. Your Lord husband decided to let the children keep them as pets.”

“Wolf pups?” Catelyn thought that sounded a little dangerous. Rickon was only three, too young for a dog let alone a wolf. How could the maester speak about wolf pups with so little concern?

“Direwolf pups…” Maester Luwin murmered, ducking his head as he lead the way out.

Catelyn’s voice raised an octave, “Direwolves? Where are my children now?”

“In the, um, ” the maester stumbled over the words, “the kitchens…”

Catelyn stormed out of the room and nearly ran to the kitchens. Direwolves! In her home? With her children?

She rushed by several servants, causing little upsets with each one she passed, but there was no time. She had to get to her children before it was too late.

Direwolves and a Lannister. While she sat daydreaming over her mending.

She was out of breath when she paused in the doorway to the kitchens. They were all there, and safe. Jon Snow was there as well, and the Imp of Lannister. All smiling and laughing with half a dozen balls of fur rolling around between them.

“Mother! Look what Robb found!” Sansa was the first to see her. She grabbed a light gray ball of fur and bounced over to her mother, holding out the squirming wolf for her inspection. “I named her Lady!”

“Sansa! What is this?” Catelyn put her hands up to fend off the wet nose and tongue that were suddenly only an inch from her face.

“I’m not blind, Sansa, darling, step back, please.”

They didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. Still, direwolves… the last time she had discussed pets with Ned the answer had been a firm ‘no’.

She had been the one to suggest that pets were useful to teach the children responsibility. She had believed Arya especially might benefit from mothering a small animal, but Ned had refused to consider animals as companions rather than for the food or work they could provide. The animals in question at the time had been baby rabbits.

And now, direwolves.

“What will your father say?” she asked them, hoping that he could take the blame when this very bad idea did not work out the way her children were obviously hoping.

“He said we could keep them,” replied Bran, holding his own bundle of fur close as if he were protecting it from her.

“He…” Catelyn was at a loss.

“He did, my Lady.” It was a strong male voice, a grown man, not a child. Catelyn turned to regard the Imp. She would not have expected him to have a voice like any normal man. She would have expected something more high-pitched or squeaking, something to match his size which was somewhere between her two youngest children. Just a little shorter than Bran, but more solid, like Rickon.

“He did? And were you there to hear this yourself?” she demanded.

“I was, my Lady.”

“As was I,” added Maester Luwin puffing as he walked up behind her.

“May I present Tyrion Lannister, my Lady?” The maester was quickly regaining his composure and his breath. “And my Lord of Lannister, may I present Catelyn Tully Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

“It’s my great pleasure to meet you,” the Imp jumped up, took her hand, bowed and kissed it lightly.

Catelyn wanted to reply, but she had been living among the northerners a bit to long and she had found that honesty causes courtesy to go to rust. It was only after a slight pause to gather her wits that she was able to get the small lie through her lips, “The pleasure is mine, my Lord”

“Not a Lord yet,” quipped the Imp. “You may call me Tyrion, my Lady.”

“Tyrion stopped at Riverrun and several other great houses on the way north, my Lady, I thought you might like to speak with him.” The maester seemed to be moving himself between her and her children and their new pets while he spoke.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Catelyn sighed with another glance at her children, who had all gone back to their excited chatter now. The direwolves were small, their eyes were closed and there were no teeth visible in their tiny mouths. The children did not seem to be in any danger this evening. She nodded her head in their direction telling herself everything was under control there.

Then she showed Tyrion to the great hall where they sat at the end of one of the long trestle tables.

It was not the most comfortable place to great a guest. But Catelyn found herself overly skeptical about this particular guest. There were rumors about the Imp when she was a child at Riverrun, most of which did not appear to be true now that she sat across from him. But he was a Lannister, and Ned might not approve of a very warm welcome.

“What brings a Lannister to Winterfell?” she asked to break the ice.

“My father has sent me on a quest,” began Tyrion. “He seems to think the next Lady of Casterly Rock may be hiding in one of your northern castles.”

“Tywin Lannister sent you north to find a bride?” Catelyn almost laughed as she restated the obvious.

Tyrion looked a little offended, and Catelyn reminded herself that courtesy was a ladies armor.

“He did,” replied the Imp.

“And how goes your quest?” Catelyn inquired, trying to be more polite.

“Well, it seems the Freys might be willing to part with a daughter, or perhaps it was a grand-daughter.” Tyrion shrugged. “My father suggested I meet the eligible women on the way north before I make any decision. I thought as Lady of Winterfell you might be well placed to know which of your bannermen I might want to visit on my quest.”

Catelyne smiled a little. Ned’s bannermen? Their daughters. Good. Relieved her own girls had yet to flower, and were still too young to be considered eligible. Not that an alliance with house Lannister would not be a wise move, but Ned often spoke with much heat about the Lannisters in general. And of course, this was not just any Lannister this was the Imp. Still, his brother was in the Kingsguard, which would leave him to inherit Casterly Rock some day. It was not a bad match if you looked at it in a practical fashion.

“There are a few young women among the minor houses. The Mormonts have a daughter or two about the right age… and the Manderlys” Catelyn began, trying to think who among their bannermen might be willing to part with a daughter to seal a political alliance with the West, while at the same time having a strong loyalty to the Starks. An alliance like this could start a war as easily as prevent one.

“To be honest, I have not paid that much attention to prospective brides in the past few years.”

“Your boys are already betrothed then?” asked the Imp.

“My boys?” Catelyn was startled. “I thought you were the one looking for a bride?”

“And I assumed you might be looking for your boys as well,” Tyrion cocked his head and looked at her with his green eye. The mismatched eyes suddenly were the only thing Catelyn could see, one green and one nearly black. She wondered if his children would all be dwarves with those same strange eyes. Finding a good match would be a certainly be a challenge.

“They are still so young…” she began, then remembered that Robb would be considered a man grown on his next nameday. Not as young as she thought. Almost older than she thought of herself most days. When had they all gotten so old? That child with the mismatched eyes could be her grandchild. She could be a grandmother soon.

“It looked like the oldest was practically a man grown already. Surely, his father is considering heirs to carry on the family name?”

Catelyn felt a tiny stirring of shame. Ned and she had not discussed marriage prospects for any of her children. Yet it seemed that Tyrion’s attitude was not unlike her father’s in regard to marriage. He had felt it his responsibility to see them all wed, even her uncle. All to make political alliances. Alliances that had helped keep peace in the realm for 15 years. Long enough to forget the trouble a bad marriage pact could cause.

Lysa had been younger than Robb when she made her vows to Jon Aryn, and younger still when they began hosting eligible young men at Riverrun. In fact, Jaime Lannister had been one of those young men, before he joined the kingsguard. When he was Robb's age. She had been in the north too long. It was easier than she realized to forget about southern customs up here.

“My Lady!” Maester Luwin interrupted before she had a chance to reply to the Imp’s question. “We received a raven from King’s Landing.”

“What is it?” she asked.

Maester Luwin handed her the tiny scroll, still sealed with the king’s seal. Catelyn broke the seal and scanned the message quickly.

“Excuse me, Lord Tyrion,” Catelyn said. “I have to find my husband.”

 


	5. Winterfell (Tyrion)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The old gods are keeping Tyrion out of trouble.

 

Tyrion watched as Catelyn Stark looked at the message from King’s Landing. It was too much to hope that she read it out loud. She didn’t even move her lips as she looked at the message. Tyrion hated being left out of any news, and especially news that could put such worried looks on the faces of both Lady Stark and her maester.

He rose from the table and bowed as they left the great hall, even though neither was looking at him anymore. Then Tyrion followed Lady Stark at a discreet distance. Hopping to be overlooked long enough to overhear whatever news the raven had brought.

Catelyn looked uncomfortable when she entered the godswood. It had to be the godswood, thought Tyrion. They had a godswood at the Rock, but not like this. This was a large forest, and an old one. It did not seem the sort of place to make japes, or even to speak out loud.

It was a dark, primal place that smelled of earth and decay from a hundred years of leaves dropping out of a canopy overhead that blocked the sunlight almost completely. Tyrion could almost feel the old gods as he entered the brooding shadows. It was not a place that welcomed foreign gods. The seven had never done anything but shit on Tyrion though, so he welcomed the strangeness of the old gods and wondered if they would be kinder to him than the seven. He hoped to the old gods that he would not be caught spying on the Lady of Winterfell.

Catelyn found her husband under the largest wierwood that Tyrion had ever seen, probably the largest this side of the wall. Perhaps the largest on both sides. It was possible, Winterfell was that old if the history books were correct.

The godswood at the rock was inside the mountain fortress, small and rarely visited. The wierwood there was more twisted roots than tree and nearly filled the whole cave.

He paused as far away from the Stark couple as he could and still have a chance of overhearing their conversation. They did not appear to be worried about anyone spying on them. Tyrion wondered if it was the godswood that made them feel safe, or if life in the North was truly that much different than life in King’s Landing or Casterly Rock where everyone was spying on someone.

The Lord of Winterfell was cleaning the giant greatsword in a dark pool beneath the wierwood.

“Ned,” she called softly.

Tyrion could hear and see from where he was standing in the dense underbrush. Perfect!

“Catelyn,” he said. “Where are the children?”

She spread her cloak and sat beside the pool, her back to the wierwood. Was it wise to turn one’s back on these nameless northern gods? Tyrion shivered slightly, he did not believe in the gods, but he standing in this godswood made him wonder if his disbelief was misplaced.

“Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.”

“Is he afraid?”

“A little,” she admitted. “He is only three.”

So much small talk. Tyrion wondered if the raven was really as important as it seemed in the great hall or if it was just a convenient excuse for the Lady to escape his company?

“He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.”

“Yes, ” the Lady of Winterfell agreed, but looked uncomfortable at the thought. Tyrion was beginning to feel uncomfortable as well. It was not his intention to intrude on any intimate moments between the Lord and his Lady and so was preparing to sneak away when the conversation turned to the deserter.

“He was the fourth this year. The poor man was half-mad. Something had put the fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him.”

He had been deeply frightened, that man, Tyrion had never seen anyone that afraid – not even when criminals were brought before his father, who was known as one of the least merciful lords in the seven kingdoms.

Lord Stark seemed to think it had something to do with wildings, but could the wildings really be more terrifying than his own Lord Father? Tyrion doubted it. As much as Tyrion resisted believing the Others could exist, he would have said the same of the old gods an hour earlier too. At the moment he was not so sure.

“Until this morning, no living man had ever seen a direwolf either,” Lady Stark pointed out. She was beautiful and smart. Could there be an eligible maiden somewhere up here in the North that could grow into a wife like Catelyn Tully had turned out to be? Tyrion would enjoy matching wits with a woman like her.

“You did not come here to tell me crib tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my lady?”

Finally! Enough beating around the wierwood tree. Tyrion turned back to watch the Starks closer. And there it was; Jon Aryn was dead.

Lord Stark looked devastated, as if the news were his own father had died.

“Jon…” he said. “Is the news certain?”

Interesting, Tyrion just realized that the bastard shared a name with Lord Stark’s brother-in-law. A man about whom he appeared to care a great deal. Whatever the connection between the two it was too old for Tyrion to have heard about it first hand, but too new to be in any history books.

Oh, and Lysa Aryn had run back to the Eyrie. That sounded just like her, to run and take that sickly boy with her. Lysa shared none of her sister’s attractive qualities, with the exception of the rich auburn hair. But even that did not seem as attractive on Lysa Aryn as on Catelyn Stark.

“I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her.”

Tyrion could barely hold in the derisive snort that comment provoked. He had been in King’s Landing a time or two with his father, and Lysa Aryn did not have friends, unless you wanted to count Littlefinger, but he was no one’s friend. Nor did she seem to take any comfort in her family from what Tyrion had observed. He wondered how long it had been since Lady Stark had seen her sister?

“The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out.”

So that was the news. The king on his way to Winterfell. The king who was suddenly short a hand. Tyrion could see what was most likely behind that trip.

“The royal family travels with him.”

Oh, that was not good. The royal family meant his sister. The one person he would want to see even less than his father. She would see him rot in the Night’s Watch if she found him here looking for a wife. Why, she would bring up all those old stories about tales and wings herself and swear they were true before a maester had them cut off.

“Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes,” he said. “It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare.”

Tyrion did tiptoe back away toward the main keep then. He had heard enough to satisfy his curiosity and realize that he had better make some plans of his own before his sister showed up and ruined it all.

He was lost in thought as he walked back into the courtyard and was suddenly hit from above with a large quantity of… horseshit.

He wiped his eyes and looked around, but could not see anyone nearby. Nor did it appear that anyone had noticed a load of flying horseshit land on the dwarf. But he did hear giggles and footsteps on the walkway above him.

Tyrion sighed. Nine years in the sewers of Casterly Rock. This was not the first time someone had seen fit to play such a prank on him, and Tyrion was afraid it would not be the last either.

He brushed himself off the best he could and tried to see where the walkway lead. If he were the owner of those footsteps, where would he make his appearance? He made his way in that direction and ran into the younger Stark daughter and her direwolf.

“Your wolf looks like it needs a bath.” Tyrion commented dryly.

She blushed. She knew he knew. Good.

“You smell like horses. Maybe you should take a bath.”

Bold little thing.

“That sounds like a lovely idea. I’m afraid I’ve lost my way though. You don’t happen to know the way to the guest chambers, do you?”

There it was again. A little blush at the word guest. It must have been her. He wondered if she really meant to drop her load on him, or if it was perhaps meant for one of her siblings.

“There’s more than one room for guests, stupid.” she said. Then covered her mouth and blushed again.

Tyrion laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” she hissed.

“Are you aware that you blush when you misbehave?” Tyrion puffed out between snorts.

“I do not.”

“You do…”

“Arya!” A loud voice cried from below.

“Oh, no, that’s the Septa.” Arya whispered. Then she looked at him and her eyes grew wide with concern. “We need to get you cleaned up before dinner!”

“Me?” Tyrion started. He wasn’t the one the Septa was looking for. But Arrya had already grabbed his sleeve and was pulling him along a hallway behind her, and then into a bedroom. A well occupied bedroom from the piles of clothes and other debris scattered around on the floor.

Arya shut the door and barred it.

Tyrion was about ready to piss himself at the absurdity of it all. This was the first time in his life a young girl had ever barred her door with him on the same side!

“Okay, here’s some water…” Arya said. “It’s only a little dirty. I think it will clean you good enough.”

She was digging around in the piles of clothes and picking up one of the smaller items and handing it to him. It appeared to be some kind of female undergarment.

“Arya!” the Septa’s voice was right outside the door now.

“Go away!” Arya yelled back. Looking toward him and putting a finger against her lips.

Tyrion wondered what Arya thought would happen if the Septa found him in her room? It was likely to be his head on a stump waiting for a giant great sword to separate it from his body.

“It’s time for dinner, Arya.” The voice from the other side of the door called. “We have guests tonight. Your mother wants me to make you presentable.”

“I’m already getting cleaned up. Go away.”

“I’m going to tell your mother, Arya.” The voice huffed and then steps disappeared down the hall.

“Does she always give up that easily?” Tyrion asked, the undergarment still in his hand.

“She knows I mean what I say.” Arya told him. Now you better wash up. You can use that old thing for a wash cloth. And the water. There. In the basin.

Tyrion wondered why it was so important to her to get him cleaned up. She didn’t seem all that concerned about the Septa’s threats over her own grooming.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, curious.

“Then they will want to know how you got all that horseshit all over you!” she hissed.

“And that might lead them to wonder what games you were playing this afternoon?” Tyrion finished. So that was what she was worried about.

Arya nodded, then added, “please?”

Tyrion looked at her under garment and sighed. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get you into any more trouble than you are already in.”

He did his best to wash off the last of the manure from his head and hands. Arya swipped at his shirt and looked him over critically.

“Good enough?” Tyrion asked.

“Probably,” Arya said. “You won’t tell, will you?”

“Of course not. And if anyone asks, I’ll say I was in the stables and got knocked over when a stable boy opened a stall door without seeing me. I’m easy to miss you know. I don’t think the lie would get anyone else in trouble. Do you?”

“As long as the stable boy wasn’t Hodor.” Arya said, smiling at him.

“Now, there is a price for my silence, my lady”, Tyrion began.

“I’m not a lady.”

“It’s just a courtesy, Arya, not an accusation…”

Tyrion took a breath and started over again as seriously as he could manage. “There is a price. For my silence.” He looked her in the eye to be sure she was listening.

“What price?” she asked.

“Two things. I need some information.”

Arya looked toward the barred door with a worried look on her face. “They are expecting us for dinner soon.”

“I know. I need information, but not this moment. Later, when we can talk privately. I have some questions maybe you can answer.”

Arya nodded.

“And right now, I need you to go unbar your door and peek out into the hall.” Tyrion shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I think it would be better if no one saw me coming out of your bedroom.”

Arya looked critically at his hair and shirt and nodded. Then turned back and rummaged in another pile until she pulled out a comb.

“You better use this while I look.”

Tyrion ran the comb through is hair while Arya checked out the hallway.

"The coast is clear," she said, motioning him to leave.

It was with great relief that Tyrion escaped the younger Stark girl's room. He trusted his nose to help him find the dining hall and was greeted by the rest of the Stark family and given a place of honor at the table between Lord Stark and his wife.

"Ned," Catelyn leaned uncomfortably close to Tyrion to speak to her husband in a low tone. Tyrion only hoped he did not still smell too much of horseshit. "Did Lord Tyrion mention to you that he has come north in search of a wife?"

"No." Tyrion flushed at the look on Lord Stark's face. "It has been a busy day," Lord Stark spoke slowly as if not quite sure how to approach the subject of marriage.

"My father sent me north, hoping I might find a likely maiden to marry." Tyrion started his story, which he had practiced a dozen times at smaller holdfasts along the way. "It seems my brother and sister have disappointed me father in the matter of an heir for Casterly Rock, and so now he has turned to me in hopes that I might find a suitably high-born girl who may make up for my personal failings and provide a satisfactory heir."

Lord Stark leaned back in his chair with a far-away look. "It's been a long time since I had to worry about arranged marriages. My lady wife was promised to my brother and I married her in his place. My sister..." he sighed. "Well, we all know what came out of my sister's betrothal. I'm not sure arranged marriages are such a good idea."

"Ned! You can't mean to leave our children on their own to find appropriate matches. That would never work." Catelyn seemed outraged.

Just then Arya walked in, "I'm going to marry the Imp." She announced, and then shoved her brothers over to sit between them.

"Arya!" Sansa was aghast. "Why would you marry the I... Lord Tyrion?"

"Because he smells like horses. I like horses."

Lord Stark looked amused while Sansa and her mother were both socked and outraged. He laughed and then told his daughter, "Well, you don't have to go all the way to Casterly Rock to smell of horses, Harwin might consider taking you to wife."

"Ned!" from Lady Catelyn.

"She can't marry Harwin, he's a servant." from Sansa.

"He'll be master of horse someday, in his father's place. If Arya's first criteria for a husband is to smell of horses then I can't think of anyone better."

Tyrion was not sure if he should be offended at being placed lower than the future master of horse at Winterfell or laugh at Lord Stark's humor.

"Ned. This is a serious matter. I had not thought of it until today, but our children are of an age where we should be planning for their future. Robb is almost a man grown. Lord Tyrion has done us a great service to remind us of our duty as parents."

Ah, so he was not a potential suitor, just a reminder of their own responsibilities as parents. Tyrion supposed he should be grateful. They did not see him as an immediate threat to their own children and had welcomed him as a guest at Winterfell with more honor than many other, lesser families had. He would be content with that for now.

After dinner, Catelyn had caught his attention and mentioned to him Alys Karstark, Wynfryd and Wylla Manderly, Joelle and Alasyne Mormont, and Donnell Harwood, although she thought the Harwood widow likely too old and likely to be more interested in protecting her own lands than in Casterly Rock.

Tyrion thanked her and begged to retire for the night as the day had been a very long and busy one.

On his way to his room, he noticed Sansa staring out over the courtyard.

"My lady," he greeted her.

"Lord Tyrion," she returned politely.

"I wonder what is on your mind tonight, my lady." Tyrion hoped he could start a conversation with the girl.

"I was thinking about marriage."

Oh, could it be any better? Tyrion grinned. "And what were you thinking, my lady?"

Sansa turned away and looked over the courtyard again. "You see that man over there, by the stables?"

Tyrion looked and nodded. He was a reasonably well-built fellow. "Is that the man you want to marry?"

"Me? No!" Sansa was quick to say. "That's Harwin, the one father said Arya should marry. Do you think she would? Marry him?"

The way she said "him" made Tyrion wince. "I've always found what young girls dream of marriage to be a bit of a mystery. My sister married the King, but only because my father forced her to."

"She didn't want to marry him?" Sansa asked, amazed, if not as shocked as she was with Arya's taste for the smell of horses.

"I don't believe so. Although, I hear he was nicer to look on when they were married. I have an idea that she may have loved another more."

"I wish I could be Queen." Sansa sighed and looked dreamily off into the distance.

"And if this Harwin was a prince, would you marry him then?" Tyrion inquired.

Sansa took another look at Harwin, considering. "He is somewhat handsome. I suppose if he were a prince, I might want to marry him."

"And if I were a prince?" Tyrion ventured.

"If you... " Sansa's mouth fell open and she blushed. True, he wasn't as handsome as Harwin, nor as any other man at Winterfell, but he might be a great lord when his father died. If that made a difference to Sansa then he would consider speaking to her father about a possible match.

She shook her head. "But you aren't a prince."

"No, no I'm not a prince. But I might be the Lord of Casterly Rock someday, and my wife would be very rich and very powerful, if not quite a queen."

Sansa seemed to consider that, but had no answer. Which was answer enough for Tyrion. Not even the Rock would persuade her to marry a man quite as disfigured as himself.

"You don't have to answer, my lady. It is a task my father asked of me, to find a wife. I was only inquiring to see if you thought a young girl such as yourself might ever look kindly on me."

"There are a lot of young women in the world, my lord. I'm sure many of them would want to be the Lady of Casterly Rock." It seemed to Tyrion that Sansa was trying very hard to be polite.

"Do you think that's why she wants to marry you?"

Tyrion was not quite sure what Sansa was referring to. "Why who wants to marry me?"

"Arya," Sansa said as if it were obvious.

Tyrion bent over laughing and shook his head, "No, no. I think she truly likes the smell of horseshit... "

Sansa's eyes grew big and her mouth dropped open again, "She didn't..."

Tyrion only laughed harder when he realized he was not the first one Arya had played that little prank on. "Can you imagine the Lady of Casterly Rock greeting her guests that way?"

"Oh, my sister will never get married!" Sansa wailed as if that was the worst thing that could ever happen.

Tyrion laughed some more, and said, "Perhaps it would be good for some guests, my sister for instance."

Seeming even more shocked, if that was possible, Sansa whispered, "but your sister is the Queen."

"She is, lady Sansa, she is. And I would dearly love to see her covered in horseshit someday. But tonight I must retire, if you will excuse me?"

Tyrion walked to his room with a smile on his face at the thought of Arya giving Cersei a proper Winterfell welcome. Perhaps he would stay long enough to see the King's party arrive after all. Maybe she would give his little nephew a nice welcome present too. He wondered if Sansa would want to marry him then, if he would still seem a handsome prince. Tyrion supposed she probably would.

 

 


	6. Kingsroad (various)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was having trouble picking a viewpoint for this chapter - so I ended up with three. Just checking in with the King's party as they head to Winterfell.

## Tommen

Tommen woke to his brother's shouting. "Where is my mother?"

Joffrey was angry as usual. Tommen curled under the blankets and pretended to be asleep. He did not like his brother when he was angry, and Tommen couldn't readily recall a time when Joffrey had not been angry about something.

"She decided to stay behind in the capitol." Tommen could hear his uncle reply calmly.

"She did what? Does my father know she isn't coming with us?"

"He does, your grace."

Tommen risked a quick peek from under the covers. Joffrey stood there, face red with anger and his mouth hanging open, as if looking at Uncle Jaime that way would make their mother appear out of nowhere.

"I need to speak with him", Joffrey demanded, "at once!"

Uncle Jaime leaned out the window for a moment and then Tommen could feel the change in speed as the wheelhouse slowed and then stopped. He heard the door open and his uncle say, "By all means, your grace. Why don't you go find the king?"

"Me?" screeched his brother.

"It would be the quickest way." Uncle Jaime replied.

Another peek and Tommen saw his brother's back as he left the wheelhouse.

"He's gone now." Uncle Jaime said, and then Tommen threw the covers back and sat up. He saw his sister, Myrcella, do the same.

"Is mother truly not coming with us?" asked Myrcella, sounding softer and sweeter than usual in contrast to her brother's tirade moments before. Tommen liked his sister.

Of course, he loved both of them, because they were family. Mother had explained to him how one must always love their family. But he'd rather love Joffrey from somewhere far away where he didn't have to hear or see him. On the other hand, Myrcella was almost always nice to be around. Except when she was crying. But she only ever cried because of Joffrey.

"Why didn't Joffrey stay in King's Landing?" Tommen asked.

"I don't think anyone asked him if he wanted to," said Uncle Jaime.

 

## Robert

"What's this?" he roared.

Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Arys Oakheart rode up with a rumpled looking child. On closer inspection Robert realized the child was his son, Joffrey, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed.

"Your son requested to see you," said Ser Preston.

"Indeed," laughed Robert, "and can my son talk for himself?"

"He can," Joffrey retorted. "I want to know where Mother is."

"She wanted to stay in the city, and I didn't want to hear her complaining all the way to Winterfell." Robert gave his son what he hoped was a stern, fatherly look. "And I don't want to hear you complaining like some girl either. You are my son. You will be king some day. You should ride out and see the lands you will rule. Do you understand me?"

Robert thought Joffrey was having trouble holding his tongue, but the boy kept whatever complaints he was about to make to himself and nodded.

"Good, find my son a horse to ride, " Robert ordered his kingsguard. Ser Oakheart was the first to respond by offering his own mount to the prince and walking back toward the wheelhouse.

Robert tried to interest the boy in the land as they traveled. He told stories of battles, his own and from history, and pointed out the direction of the Eyrie where he had fostered as a boy with the late Jon Aryn.

The boy would nod or grunt occasionally, but did not seem impressed. He was sullen, if Robert had to put a word to it. And he slouched in his saddle, which irritated Robert as much as his apparent lack of interest in the world around him. What kind of a son had he sired? It was obvious the boy took after his mother with that pretty face surrounded by golden curls. He seemed to have inherited her personality as well.

Robert suspected the only thing that kept the boy quiet was not wanting to be called a girl again. Maybe he shouldn't act like such a girl then.

The kingslayer came riding up as they broke for the mid-day meal. "I see your son found you." Jaime called from horseback.

"He did." Robert grumbled. "It might be a good idea if he found his way back to the wheelhouse before we continue our journey.

"Why is that?" the kingslayer asked.

"Is it not enough that your King wants it thus?"

"It's only," the kingslayer leaned down from his horse and lowered his voice, "I thought it might do him some good to spend some time with his father instead of cooped up like a child with his younger siblings."

Robert squinted at the kingslayer. Jaime Lannister was too free with his thoughts and opinions. Cersei let him get away with that, encouraged it even. None of the other kingsguards dared to make suggestions to their King.

"The boy has had enough riding for the day. He sits his horse like a sack of turnips."

The Kingslayer looked over toward where Joffery was eating and replied, "Perhaps it will take more than one day for him to learn to ride like a king."

"Hmmp. Do you think there are enough days between here and Winterfell for him to learn?" Robert did not think the boy showed any sign of promise, but he was his son after all.

"I think someone should try to teach him." Jaime just did not know when to shut up. Robert could forgive him for killing the old king, if only he would learn to keep his mouth shut.

"And I suppose you think that someone should be me?" Robert asked.

"Who better to teach a boy to be king than a king?"

"Fine. Bring the boy to me before we set out in the mornings. I will let him ride at my side as long as he can each day. But after that, you must teach yourself."

"Me?"

Robert laughed at the look on Jaime's face. "You just said the boy needs to learn. You ride a horse well-enough. And you are his uncle. That's almost as good as a father, and it would save me the trouble. Don't think that boy won't be trouble."

"Yes, your Grace." Jaime looked very uncomfortable at the thought.

Ha, maybe he should make him take Joffrey as his squire. But that would only last until Cersei heard about it. Robert had suggested that Joffrey become a ward, and later a squire, but the woman wouldn't hear of it. She wouldn't be parted from her darling boy.  He was more than a little surprised that she had stayed in the city. But relieved too. It would be a much better trip without her.

"Might I be so bold as to ask about the other children? Your Grace..."

"What about them?" Robert roused from his thoughts, "Do you want them all as squires?"

"No," the Kingslayer appeared to be holding back a laugh. "I was wondering if you might like to spend some time riding with Tommen or Myrcella. Children are often easier to teach when you start young, or so I've heard."

Robert thought that over. The truth was his wife rarely let him spend time with his own children. Not that he minded much. But it might be a chance to get to know them better. An unusually good idea coming from the Kingslayer.

"Let them take turns in the afternoons. Tommen can ride with me today."

 

## Jaime

The King's party moved slowly up the kingsroad. It was nearly 500 leagues from Kings Landing to Winterfell. On horseback, a good soldier could cover 20 leagues a day if he was willing to push his mount that hard. With a wheelhouse and wagons loaded with provisions though they were lucky to make 3 leagues a day. The whole trip could take nearly a year. Jaime hated the thought of being separated from Cersei for so long. He wondered if she had considered how long they would be apart when she decided to remain in King's Landing.

Probably, she had asked him to stay after all. But he was sick of the city and enjoyed being out in the field on horseback for a change. Jaime was even a little relieved that Cersei didn't come. She would have expected him to ride in the wheelhouse with her and he would have missed the summer winds across the Riverlands.

The King did too. He spent some time each day with his children and didn't start drinking until after Myrcella or Tommen had gone back to the wheelhouse  for the day.  He was even a little more discreet about his women, usually taking one of the other kingsguards to stand watch while he did his best to sire a few more bastards.

Jaime despised the man for that. It dishonored his sister. It dishonored their family. He had offered to kill Robert the first time after Cersei discovered him with one of his Estermont cousins. But instead she wanted to give Robert horns. So they had. Three of them.

What did it matter as long as Robert thought they were his?

Jaime berated himself daily for suggesting that Robert show an interest in his children. He had not thought the King would listen to his suggestion. In fact, he rather expected Robert to order the children to be kept away from him for the duration of the journey.

Instead, he took the belligerent little prince to see his father every day at daybreak and then spent the afternoons attempting to show Joffrey the basics of good horsemanship. The boy was saddle sore and irritable. He did not understand why he should not ride in the wheelhouse. It seems that Joffrey thought being a prince was entirely about being waited on hand and foot.

It shamed Jaime to think that he was really Joffery's father. And frustrated him more than he could have imagined when after over a month of lessons Joffrey had not changed even a little. He still looked like a bag of turnips in the saddle and complained of saddle sores each evening, although Jaime thought it unlikely that he was still in any real pain at this point.

Robert seemed to be enjoying the two younger children as they rode with him in the afternoons. Both were happy to spend time with their father and hear his tales of life as a soldier, and Robert loved being admired. Jaime was pleased that his suggestion worked out well that way. Surely they were safer with what passed as their father's love than they would be locked away day and night in a wheelhouse with Cersei. That is how she would have chosen to protect them.


	7. Winterfell (Ned)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned is persuaded to take his children's future more seriously and take action toward finding them good matches.

Ned looked at his wife curiously, "I heard you mentioned some high-born girls to Tyrion after dinner."

"I did." Catelyn looked as if she were daring him to object.

"Don't you think it might insult the girls if he mentions you suggested he meet them?" Ned did not have anything personally against the Imp, only the rest of his family: his father who had served the old king and came late to the rebellion, his brother who killed that king when he was sworn to guard him, and the sister who insisted on making his best friend's life a living hell. No, Tyrion had not done anything to earn Ned's dislike, but the Imp made him uncomfortable all the same.

"I should think they would be glad to be considered worthy to be the next Lady of Casterly Rock."

"He's a dwarf..."

"I've noticed, Ned. But if Sansa were a little older I'd consider him as my own goodson."

Ned looked at Catelyn in disbelief. "Why?"

"A marriage is an alliance, Ned. Do you think I married you out of love? I did it for duty. Love came later."

"And you don't want that for your girls? For love to come sooner or later?" Ned asked gently.

"Of course I do, but Ned, that is not what marriage is about. It's about strengthening your house by forging an alliance with another house. There is so much bad blood between the Starks and the Lannisters. If Sansa married the Imp it could change that."

"Could it?" Ned had his doubts. Even if they were talking about the golden son, Jaime, if he were free to marry. It was not likely a marriage would mend the fences between the Starks and the Lannisers. If things were that simple they could have married Robert's youngest to the Targaryen princess that had barely escaped Dragonstone and the wold would be filled with flowers and songs. Only Sansa would believe that tale. "Lyanna was betrothed to Robert, you will recall. That did nothing to heal any wounds."

Catelyn sighed. "Sansa is too young. Tyrion is in search of an heir. He needs a girl who has flowered already to satisfy his father's request. But she is not too young for betrothal. We should consider possible matches for her. And for Robb, he will be the next Lord of Winterfell. Lord Tywin is not the only one who should be thinking about an heir."

Ned refused to be cowed, "Robb has heirs. Bran and Rickon are his heirs. And even Jon if it ever came to that."

"Not Jon..." there was venom in her voice. "Never Jon."

Ned sighed. He wished she did not hate the boy so much. "We have three healthy young sons to hold Winterfell if something should happen to me, Catelyn. We don't need to rush the boy into marriage."

Ned tried to put his arms around Catelyn and hold her close, but she refused to move even while she allowed him to encircle her with his arms. He closed his eyes and rested his head on hers. "Come to bed, my love, we can talk about who our children should marry in the morning.

In the morning Ned promised Catelyn that he would speak with Tyrion about a possible match between him and Sansa. Ned was hoping she would forbid him to talk to the Imp.  Catelyn looked disturbed, but didn't say anything.

So Ned found himself searching for the Imp after he broke his fast. His inquiries lead him to the godswood where he found Tyrion Lannister sitting on a log watching Arya and Bran spar with a couple of broken branches. He paused for a few minutes to collect his thoughts and observe the trio.

"Are you really going to marry the Imp?" Bran asked.

"Yes, I want to know too, are you really going to marry the Imp?" asked Tyrion.

"I could if I wanted to." replied Arya as she swung low and hit her little brother's calf.

Bran dropped his stick and fell to the ground clasping his leg. Ned could see he was acting as if it was worse than it was.

"The real question is would you marry Arya?" Bran said, "She's very dangerous you know."

Ned felt the laughter bubble up inside. He did not get the impression either Arya or Tyrion was seriously considering this match.

"Oh, I can see that. I would have to be a very good husband and make sure she had no cause to beat me with sticks."

"It would be a sword. If I marry you, you have to let me have a real sword, and find me a master-at-arms to teach me how to fight. And you can never make me do any needlework..."

"Are you quite finished laying out your terms, Arya?" Asked Ned, alerting them all of his presence. He stepped forward into the clearing and continued, "Marriage is not a joke, Arya. And Lord Tyrion is in serious need of a wife. You should not tease him. Last I heard, you never wanted to get married."

Arya wrinkled up her face, obviously thinking hard. "I don't want to marry a knight or live in a castle. I'm never going to be a lady."

She looked at Tyrion like she expected him to help plead her case.

"It's very likely that my wife will become the Lady of Casterly Rock." Tyrion told Arya. "While I would be more than happy to promise you a sword and an instructor to teach you to use it, I cannot promise that you would not be expected to act the part of a great lady at times too."

Arya looked disappointed, but Ned was relieved. It might be there was one Lannister he could stomach after all.

"Lord Tyrion, my wife wanted me to talk with you." Ned looked to his children, "in private."

Tyrion nodded and followed Ned from the godswood.

"Thank you," said Ned, when he was sure they were out of range to be overheard. "I don't know what has gotten into Aray, she never seemed interested in marriage before last night."

"I don't believe she is interested, Lord Stark. I think she is only teasing me. She seems to enjoy making me uncomfortable."

Ned laughed. "She does have a bit of the wolf's blood in her."

"The wolf's blood?" asked Tyrion.

"Yes," Ned suddenly serious. "There is something I want to show you."

He led Tyrion down into the Crypts, mentioning the Lords of Winterell and the Kings of Winter as he passed them. At the end of the long line of serious faces they came to the statue of his sister, Lyanna.

"This is her. This is my sister Lyanna. She was promised to Robert Baratheon when she was younger than Arya."

Tyrion nodded, looking thoughtful. "Not much good came of that match," the little man stated.

Ned took a deep breath, still feeling tears gather in his eyes when he looked at his sister's image. "No. Nothing good."

"Catelyn and I were lucky. Love grew between us. But what about Robert and Cersei? What about Catelyn's sister and Jon Aryn? Catelyn seems so sure we should arrange marriages for the children, but how can I, knowing the odds are they will turn out badly?"

Tyrion was silent and nodded. "You do seem to be one of the lucky ones. Would you have married someone else if you had the choice?"

Yes. Ned thought. I would have. "Maybe, he said. Catelyn was supposed to marry my brother. I suppose I would have had to marry someone else."

"I do not wish to force myself on any woman." Tyrion stated. Ned raised an eyebrow at that. He had heard that the Imp was as frequent a visitor to the brothels as his friend Robert ever was. Tyrion noticed the look and added, "Not even whores, if one doesn't want my coin I can easily find another who does."

Ned grinned, that was not the kind of confession one make to one's future goodfather. Perhaps he could talk with the Imp after all. "Catelyn seems to think that Sansa might be a good match for you."

"Sansa?" Tyrion seemed surprised.

Ned just looked at him and waited.

"My father mentioned your oldest girl was likely to be of an age to be married, but now that I am here I see she is still only a child really."

Ned relaxed and let him continue.

"She is a sweet girl. I talked to her after supper last night. It seems she wants to marry a prince, or at least some handsome knight. And I am neither. Not all dreams come true, and she may find that not all princes are quite as valiant as she believe. But I do not want to be the one to spoil those dreams, Lord Stark."

"Good." Ned said. "I do not think you would be a good husband for Sansa either.  I understand that you may inherit Casterly Rock some day, but I would rather see her married to a man she can love. I do not think you are that man."

"No." Tyrion did not look pleased, but did not disagree.

"Who would you suggest for Sansa then?" Ned asked. "Prince Joffery?"

Tyrion looked up in surprise. "Joffery? The boy is spoiled beyond belief, and cruel besides. I have not met a girl I misliked enough to wish Joffery upon."

Ned was surprised again, Joffery was the Imp's own nephew and his words could be taken as treasonous if they were heard by the wrong people. "I see..." Ned started. Not that he would be happy to see Sansa with any Lannister, even one with a Baratheon surname, but Catelyn was right, they would need to find her a good match somewhere.

"There are princes in Dorne," began Tyrion.

"The Red Viper?" Ned started.

"Is far too old, and has a paramour who seems to hold his heart as well," finished Tyrion. "I was thinking of Doran Martell's sons, Quentin and Trystane. He has a daughter too, older than them, and the girls can inherit in Dorne, so neither son has a claim to offer, but both are princes, and undoubtedly more handsome than I."

Ned looked at the dwarf with interest. He seemed to have Sansa's best interests at heart, possibly more than her own mother did. Ned would like to find both his daughter's husbands who considered their interests above their own, but knew that was a rare quality.

"It seems your younger daughter takes after her aunt quite strongly." Tyrion broke the silence.

"She does." Ned loved Ayra as fiercely as he once loved Lyanna.

"Do you think King Robert would notice it? The resemblance?"

"It would be hard to miss. They don't just look alike, Lyanna was just as fierce and wanted to ride and fight just like Arya does. She didn't resist learning to act like a lady as much as Arya, but she was older by then too..." Ned drifted off into his memories of his sister.

And then he remembered Robert too. "Why do you ask?"

"I had overheard some talk at court about a Highgarden girl who might resemble your sister. It seems there are some that think Robert would set aside my sister for another woman if there was enough of a resemblance."

Ned's face darkened again. He would rather see Arya married to the Imp than Robert. He spent the rest of the day talking with Tyrion about children of many families, north and south. They discussed the daughters Tyrion had met on his way to Winterfell and those Catelyn had mentioned to him the night before. And they discussed potential matches for all of the Stark children as well.

Ned was impressed that Tyrion did not seem to press his case as a future son-in-law, but rather offered honest criticism both positive and negative where he had any knowledge of the families. I the end he told Tyrion he thought the woman who ended up as his wife would be lucky to have him. And then he faced a more difficult challenge, proposing his favorite matches to Catelyn who was thinking beyond each child's happiness to political alliances as well.

In the end, they sent ravens to Dorne, the Eyrie, Highgarden, Casterly Rock and Bear Island.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much happening at Winterfell, but I think you have the idea now, so next we will check in and find out what's happening in King's Landing. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments & kudos. I'm so glad you are enjoying the story!


	8. King's Landing (Littlefinger)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek at what's happening in King's Landing while the King is away. (And thanks to everyone that noticed I mixed up East/West! It's been fixed... )

It was a beautiful summer day. Petyr was whistling to himself as he climbed the steps to the Red Keep. The a cool breeze was blowing in from Blackwater Bay, bringing a freshly scent to the air to replace the unpleasant smells of the city, at least here on Aegon's Hill. It was a lovely break from the muggy heat that had gripped the city for the past week. A rider had just delivered a message from the Eyrie. Lysa and little Robert had arrived safely and everything was going according to plan. Lysa had also written how much she missed him already.

Petyr grinned as he thought to himself that the widow was ripe for the plucking already, her heart his for the asking. He wanted more than her heart though, he would need to find the right opportunity to attract the Lords of the Vale as well as the willing widow. Petyr had an idea just which strings he could pull to make that happen. Chaos was the key. Wherever chaos exists, there would always be opportunities for advancement if one was clever enough to see them. He considered himself more clever than most.

Yes, it was a beautiful day, and praise be to all the gods, old and new. Cersei decided to stay behind while King Robert rode north to court his new hand. She would want to rule while Robert was away and to do that, she would need help. His help, perhaps.

With or without his help, there was sure to be chaos as a result.

The secret to manipulating Cersei was flattery. She liked to think herself clever, so Petyr always let her think he found her to be the most clever person he knew. The secret to manipulating any woman was flattery. It worked with most men as well. Everyone wanted to be admired for something. The main trick was figuring out what they wanted to be admired for, what they secretly thought was their greatest asset. There were very few people that Petyr Baelish could not figure out.

"Lord Baelish," called a somewhat effeminate voice. "Might I have a word with you?"

Well, there went his perfectly delightful morning. Petyr pasted a smile on his face and turned toward the eunuch. Lord Varys was one of those few Petyr had yet to unlock the secret desires that drove him. Perhaps it was the lack of his manhood that made it so difficult. It did eliminate some of the more obvious desires.

"Lord Varys, to what do I owe this pleasure?" Petyr paused a step higher than Varys, allowing him to look down on the eunuch. Positioning oneself at a level just a little above the person you were talking to was another way to gain the upper hand, if you will. Petyr always wanted to take whatever advantage he could, especially around the master of whispers.

"Oh, have you heard that our Queen is still in the city?" Varys started out.

"I had heard that, yes," replied Petyr, "Were you looking for confirmation of that rumor?"

Varys giggled. "No, my lord, I am quite certain of my sources. I was only wondering if you had any plans to speak with her majesty this afternoon."

"I was just on my way to speak to her now, as a matter of fact, to offer her whatever support she may need during her husband's absence." Petyr thought Varys seemed overly pleased with himself. "Can I deliver a message for you?"

"Oh, if you would, my lord." Talking to Varys reminded Petyr a bit too much of trying to train the young women who came to King's Landing from smaller holdfasts and villages. They always giggled when they were nervous about their performance. Petyr could only hope Varys was nervous about something.

"I am rather in a hurry, Varys. What would you like the Queen to know?"

"Some of my little birds in the Eyrie have heard a rather disturbing rumor, my lord. It would seem that Lysa Aryn believes her husband was poisoned." Varys put on a mask of concern that looked entirely false.

"And why should I be concerned with what Lysa Aryn believes?" asked Petyr. It would be easy to dismiss Varys and his play acting if he wasn't quite so alarmingly accurate.

"I thought the queen might want to know. If there is a poisoner here at court, why she might be in danger too." And now Varys was looking at him through lowered lids. It was a charming pose, really, when it was some sweet young maiden, barely flowered, chatting with some soldier with a heavy purse.

"And you want me to warn her of the danger?" asked Petyr. "But you are too late, my friend, Maester Pycelle examined Lord Aryn's body weeks ago and found no signs of poison, only old age. Perhaps Lysa left the city before she heard that news. It seems the danger has long since passed."

"That is good to know." Varys smiled and left.

It disturbed Petyr to talk with Varys, it was one of the few things that could make him doubt himself. Not that the eunuch could completely spoil his day. He had much better news to share with his queen. He had uncovered a plot she was sure to be interested in.

Petyr continued on to her chambers as quickly as he could without looking undignified. Smoothing his hair and clothing before approaching the guards at her door. He was admitted almost immediately.

"To what to I owe this honor?" asked the Queen as she picked at her breakfast.

"The honor is all mine, your Grace. I am so glad you decided to stay in King's Landing. We need someone to manage the city," Petyr paused, "and the realm, while our Beloved King is away."

He could see Cersei trying to hide her smile. "And what do you need my help with today, my lord?" she asked, trying her best to look put out by the intrusion.

"It was chance that I overheard your husband's brother talking to his little friend this morning."

"And what is my darling goodbrother up to now?" As much as she appeared unconcerned, Petyr was observing her carefully for signs of hidden interest.

"It seems his friend has a sister."

"And?" she prompted impatiently, "do get on with it Lord Baelish, I haven't got all day to sit here and listen to the genealogy of all the lesser houses of the seven kingdoms."

"I'm sorry, your Grace. It's just I couldn't help but overhear them saying how much this sister looks like another younger sister, a Stark sister you may be familiar with."

"So, some little rose looks like Lyanna Stark. So what?"

"They seem to think Robert might want to meet her when he returns to King's Landing."

"Why," she started, and then he saw the pieces fall into place in her mind, "he wouldn't dare set me aside. I am the Queen," she raged, suddenly standing up and pacing the room.

"I wish I could say that with equal confidence, your Grace. It would certainly be a mistake to set you aside, and for a mere child.." Petyr spread his hands and shook his head all courtly concern for the incompetence of the King. "But the man has been known to think with his cock, if I may be so blunt."

"We can't let this happen." Cersei suddenly seemed to draw close like a confidant.

"I was hoping you would see it that way too. You are the best hope for the seven kingdoms. Anyone with any sense can see that." Petyr paused to let the compliment sink in before he continued. "There is a way we could prevent the boys from playing there game..."

"How?" she demanded, her brows furrowed in concentration.

"If the rose was already promised to another before the King returns."

Cersei laughed and shook her head. "You want me to arrange a marriage for the little Tyrell?"

"It could be a royal decree." He hinted. She was so slow sometimes. He hoped he wouldn't need to point out the royal prince was nearly of an age with our lovely Rose of Highgarden."

"But who?"

Petyr sighed. It would be better if she came to the answer on her own. "I don't know off hand, but I'm sure you can find some young man who would be interested in the riches of Highgarden, especially when they come with such a lovely bride as part of the package."

"Yes." Cersei said, almost to herself. "I will have to think about possible matches."

"Oh, and one other thing, a small matter."

"What else?" Cersei looked as if she was already tired of the game this morning. Petyr hoped she would get better over the next few months, or at least develop some more endurance. It wouldn't do if she could not carry on more than half a conversation in a day.

"There is the matter of a new Warden of the East. I received a raven from the Eyrie this morning. Lysa and her son arrived home safely. And of course her son will be Lord of the Eyrie and all that when he is grown, but he's such a young boy now, it seems we must appoint someone to rule in his place until he comes of age."

"His mother, perhaps?" Cersei suggested, appearing to be distracted still by the former problem.

"Lysa?" Petyr chuckled. "I had thought to offer myself as Lord Protector."

"You?" Cersei said with disdain, no longer distracted. "A woman can rule as much as a man. And you cannot rule the Vale. It would have to be someone from one of the great houses. Lysa is from Riverrun."

"I am aware. I was fostered at Riverrun as a boy. "You could rule as well as any man, and no doubt better than your husband and his brothers. But Lysa is not you, your Grace."

He had Cersei's full attention now and he suspected she was remembering one or two choice events where Lysa had shown her true colors recently.

"You may be right. Would she listen to you if I sent you to the Vale to assist her? Not to be Lord Protector, they would never accept you. But to advise her so that she could rule herself?"

"It would be a very difficult task, unless, well, no, you are right, as always, your Grace. It is a task for someone of a higher birth than I."

"Jaime would be a good choice," she mused aloud.

"Jaime is in the kingsguard, he can't marry Lysa." Petyr pointed out.

"Who says they have to be married? He can rule and she can nurse that little brat of hers until he comes of age." Cersei was becoming irritable now, a sure sign that Petyr's work here was done.

"I see your point, your Grace. If there is anything else that I can do for you, you need only ask. I am ever at your service."

Cersei smiled at him looking quite satisfied with his declaration of loyalty. Petyr couldn't help but grin back as he bowed and left her presence.

His next visit was to Stannis. Rumors were that he planned to leave the city. Petyr could not see how returning to Dragonstone would help anyone, not even Stannis. And he should deliver Vary's warning to someone.

Petyr found Stannis in his rooms, appearing to be packing. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I'm needed on Dragonstone." Stannis snapped, not looking at Petyr.

"Are you really?" Petyr sneered. "Is your wife lonely?"

"What do you want Baelish?"

"It's only that I just overheard a rumor," he started.

"I'm not interested in gossip. If you have nothing of importance to say then leave. I've got a busy day."

"Running away from a battle?" Petyr taunted him. Stannis was quite different to deal with than Cersei. He wanted to be thought of as brave and dutiful, but responded better to insults that suggested he was not than to flattery, even if it was deserved.

"There are no battles here," snapped Stannis.

"Oh, and if Jon Aryn did not die of natural causes?"

"The maesters say it was old age that killed him." Stannis dismissed him.

"I've heard otherwise. Posion. Someone wanted him dead. I wonder why anyone would want Jon Aryn dead?"

Stannis looked at him with impatience. "He was well loved, we all know that."

And it eats away at you doesn't it? Petyr thought, grinning. "You can't think of any reason someone might not love him?"

Stannis just stood in his sparsely furnished room staring at him. He was not going to give Petyr anything.

"Not even after visiting that armory on the street of steel?" Petyr prompted. "After meeting Robert's bastard?"

"What do you want, Littlefinger?" growled Stannis.

"Me? I don't want anything. I'm just surprised that you would leave King's Landing so soon after learning that you may in fact be next in line for the throne."

"One bastard is not proof of anything."

"I believe Jon Aryn had other proofs as well. Is it not your brotherly duty to discover the truth of the matter?"

"And get myself killed, too?"

"Running away with your tail between your legs then, that does surprise me. Especially when your little brother has come up with the perfect plan to correct the situation."

"Renly? What has he done?" Stannis was annoyed. He often had to clean up after Renly. It was Stannis who kept the rumors of him and Loras Tyrell from growing our of control. If he chose to leave, perhaps Petyr could make something out of those rumors when they became less rumor and more public knowledge.

"It seems he has found someone that might convince Robert to give up Cersei. If he did set her aside, it would be a much better time, a much safer time to reveal her children's origins."

"Actually, if Cersei's children aren't Roberts, then the marriage could be annulled, making this match even easier than Renly suspects." Petyr did hate having to spell everything out like this, but Stannis was almost completely unaware that there was a game to be played, let alone how to play it.

"Why would I want to help Renly?"

"You wouldn't be helping Renly nearly as much as you would be helping Robert?"

"Neither one of them would thank me for it." Stannis continued to put things in his trunks, but at a slower pace than before.

"No, I don't suppose they would, no matter how much their gratitude was deserved."

With that, Petyr took his leave. Hoping he had sowed his seeds well. It was a few days later, when Cersei showed up to a small council meeting that he saw them sprout and take root. It was Cersei who brought up the idea of royal marriages, betrothals for her children, and Pycelle eagerly joined in.

The more the Baratheon brothers tried to offer up anyone but a Tyrell, the more Petyr was convinced that Cersei would come around to the idea of Joffery and Margery getting married, if only to keep the young woman from her husband.

Varys mentioned some news about the Beggar King selling his sister to a horselord, but Cersei was too preoccupied with Joffery's possible marriage to pay much attention. She dismissed the news as unimportant and not worth telling Robert about. Varys didn't press the issue, but he did suggest the need for an "acting hand" while King Robert was away.

"I can do that," Cersai calimed.

"Oh, but we thought you would be acting as Regent." Petyr smiles.

"Yes. I will, I can do both."

"No one can do both," Varys backs up Littlefinger. "Perhaps your father would be willing to take up the office until the king returns?"

"My father is busy at Casterly Rock." Cersei explains with exaggerated patience. "As well as his duties as Warden of the West."

She looks around and smiles in Stannis' direction, "Perhaps Stannis can stand as hand until Robert returns?"

That caught Petyr's attention. A very good move. Well, played. He would have to be more careful not to underestimate Cersei. Everyone knew how badly Stannis wanted to be recognized, and yet he never was. Petyr wished he had thought of it first. He would have to content himself with the fact Stannis was still here, and on rather good terms with Renly at the moment. He was pleased with how things were going here. It looked to him like it was time for a visit to Highgarden. He would hate for the Tyrells to be confused about the sudden royal interest in their little rose.


	9. Kingsroad (Joffery)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** CHAPTER WARNING ***
> 
> This chapter is from Joffrey's viewpoint and contains sex (rape) and violence (hunting). If you would prefer to skip this chapter then just be aware, Joffrey is a little shit and it's not 100% Cersei's fault - he can turn even the best of intentions into something uniquely his own, and he may be turning out even worse than in cannon because Cersei is not there to shelter him.

After 6 weeks of being woken before the sun was even up, Joffrey was awake before his Uncle Jaime came to get him. He would be riding with his father this morning as he did every morning. The saddle sores had faded and left him feeling tough as leather. Like some hedge knight thought Joffrey. He was prince. One day he would be king. But for now they were making him act like some kind of lowly soldier. His days and nights had been reduced to riding and training and sleeping.

He worked harder than any of them. And he hated it. When he was king, he would make other people do the work. Not like his father. King Robert actually seemed to like riding and even slept outside some nights. Joffrey shivered at the thought. He preferred his life in the castle and could understand now why his mother had insisted that time with his father was unnecessary.

The more time Joffrey spent with King Robert, the less he believed his father was a true king. He was more like a common soldier. He talked rough and laughed at stupid jokes. He drank too much, and each evening he would sneak away to find some woman to lay with.

Joffrey had started following him a couple weeks ago. He’d watched as his father mated with tavern wenches and whores. It was disgusting really. But it also excited him somehow.

In the afternoons, he was allowed to ride in the wheelhouse while is brother and sister took turns riding with their father and his uncle. He rarely saw them, which was a relief. He often took a nap to make up for being forced to get up so early in the morning.

But as soon as they stopped for the evening, his uncle was back, demanding that the prince come train with him. Once, Ser Jaime had been the finest knight in all the seven kingdoms. That was before though. Now, he was only annoying. Joffrey beat him every evening. It was the one thing his uncle demanded of him, and his father, the King, insisted. So they sparred with tourney swords until Joffrey managed to touch his uncle in some vulnerable spot which might be a kill if they had real swords.

Joffrey wished they had real swords. If they did he’d finish off his uncle and not have to bother with these early mornings or late evenings any more.

This afternoon was different. They had come to a castle around mid-day and there would be a feast tonight. Before that there was to be a hunt. Joffrey was to go on the hunt and carry a crossbow. He was sure that he would be the one to kill whatever game was in these forests. He had practiced with a crossbow before in King’s Landing and often shot rabbits in the yard.

The rabbits had been very fast and he was only able to hit one in ten. They had been scared though, locked inside the castle. Wild rabbits would probably be slower since they weren’t used to being hunted. Not that Joffrey was hoping to shoot a rabbit. He wanted to provide something larger for the feast. He wanted everyone to know it was his kill and thank him for it.

A stag perhaps. It would be a fitting gift, as the sigil of his house.

Joffrey mounted his horse again with a grimace. He had grown used to riding half the day, but was sore this afternoon, and tired because he did not have a chance to take his accustomed nap. It would be worth the extra effort when they were eating the stag he brought down though.

They road for quite some time with no sign of game anywhere.

“Maybe there isn’t any game in this forest.” Joffrey suggested, having grown bored of the hunt by now.

“Be quiet!” his father roared. “You’ll scare whatever game there is away with your whining.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes. If anyone was scaring the game, it was probably the King. He was hardly a quiet man.

It must have been an hour later when one of the scouts signaled them to stop. Everyone held their breaths, waiting silently to see what had been found.

And then men were dismounting and taking up positions around a small clearing.

“The scouts have found a boar,” his uncle whispered, helping him dismount. “Load your crossbow and wait. They will try to frighten it into running our way.”

Joffrey was disappointed it was only a boar, but was sure his bolt would be the one to kill it none-the-less. He loaded and tried to position himself with a clear view of the spot he believed the boar would appear.

Then he heard the sounds in the brush and men yelling at a distance as well as the screaming grunts of at least one boar. Joffrey found himself bouncing up and down with excitement, trying to keep his crossbow steady and aimed. He barely heard the King order everyone else to stand down and let him take the animal.

The boar appeared and Joffrey shot his crossbow at it. But just as his finger touched the release, someone bumped into him, ruining his shot.

“Didn’t you hear the King’s order to stand down?” hissed his uncle Jaime.

The boar was still coming and Joffrey tried to reload quickly. It was too late, his father got a spear in the boar before Joffrey could reload. His excitement was replaced with anger and jealousy toward his father. Everyone would praise the king for the hunt now. His only solace was watching the boar bleed out.

If it had been anyone else who stole his kill from him, he would… but you could not argue with the fucking King. He hated the king, his father. And his uncle. If Jaime had not bumped into him like that he would have hit the boar first. He glared at his uncle. This was all his fault.

It was a long ride back to the castle and Joffrey’s anger and disappointment faded as they road. There would be a feast. And after that a real room and a feather bed. He could forgive his father and uncle for ruining his hunt. That was the kingly thing to do. By the time they arrived back at the castle Joffrey was feeling like the rightful heir to the Iron Throne again and was looking forward to the feast.

That evening, Joffrey watched as his father spend most of his time retelling the tale of the boar hunt to a rather plain high-born lady, some cousin of the Lord who ruled this tiny little castle, a Dray or a Ferry. A little lord his father had been talking about on their morning ride. Not an important house, and not a very smart family. They had fought on the wrong side during the rebellion.

The feast was a disappointment, they weren’t even eating the boar they hunted. It seemed that the cooks had already prepared other food and claimed the boar would take too long to cook. His father proclaimed they would stay another day so they could eat the boar on the morrow.

Joffrey felt put out each time he heard something about this boar the king killed, as if it should not have been his kill. He thought they should all know that it was his arrow that almost killed the boar first. Uncle Jaime had retrieved the cross bow bolt, but neglected to tell anyone how brave he had been to shoot it. he was the first one to shoot at the boar. They should have praised him for that, but no one even knew. Joffrey held it all in and didn’t say anything, just imagined what he could do to each of them if only he were king.

The one thing that Joffrey enjoyed that evening was watching his father try to woo this flat-chested young woman with the dull brown hair. He tried to understand why the king would take any interest in her.

There were a number of more attractive women in the room. And more than a few of them were showing their interest in the King. But his father only seemed to see this one woman, barely more than a girl. It was a puzzle that Joffrey felt compelled to solve.

It reminded him a little of the hunt this afternoon and how everyone had to be so quiet. So his was how a king acted toward a noble woman. It was different than the whores he had watched his father with before. They were easy, if you had coin, but this was a challenge. It almost seemed like his father had intentionally singled out the one woman in the room who was not interested in bedding him.

The girl was not discourteous, but resisted his advances and actually tired to avoid him most of the evening. Joffrey could not imagine why any woman would not want to be the one, or at least one of the women in his father’s bed tonight.

His father watched the girl closely all evening, when she was not near him and glare at any other man she talked to. Joffrey was sure this was the woman who would be blessed with the King’s company tonight, and was beginning to enjoy this chase. When he was king, he would not waste his time on whores. He would only bed noble women.

As the hall was clearing out the young woman left. A few minutes later the King left as well. Joffrey followed them at a distance, down the hallways and up some stairs, until his father paused outside a door and knocked.

Joffrey smiled and felt his breathing accelerate when the girl opened the door, just a sliver, and shook her head at the King. He could not hear what they were saying, but it looked to Joffrey like the girl was trying to refuse the King.

Everyone knew that when you were King people had to do what you told them. That’s why he still had to get up every morning and ride with his father, even though he’d rather sleep. But the girl was stupid. Strangely, his father did not seem angry. Instead he talked softly and leaned on the door to keep her from closing it. It almost sounded like the King was begging, but of course, a king would never have to beg for anything. A king was only supposed to be obeyed.

Joffrey watched as the door inched open a little wider. His father was a big man, and this woman not much more than a skinny girl. Joffrey found himself inching closer as well. He was feeling excited by this encounter and felt the warmth spreading in his loins as well as his heart beating harder in his chest.

And then he did it. The King had the door open wide enough to step inside the room. And he didn’t bother to shut it. Joffrey was full of excitement as he hurried quietly to the door and caught it still part-way open.

His father had his hands on the girl and his back to the door. The girl could not see around him. Joffrey looked around and saw a wardrobe with a curtain for a door. He hid himself behind the curtains where he could have a good view.

“You look just like her,” his father was saying.

“I don’t your grace. I’m just an ugly little girl. Everyone says so.”

She sounded frightened. It was a nice sound. The other women had mostly flirted and flattered the King. He paid them, and they gave him what he wanted more or less willingly. Joffrey had seen boredom at times, but never fear.

This fear was real. It wasn’t the false smiles that he had seen before, or even the genuine eagerness. This girl was actually trying to refuse his father, the King. Joffrey wondered why he was so patient and pleading. Why not just have her head off and find some other slut to do what he wanted?

Except if she lost her head, then she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. And the fear was exciting. That must be what his father was waiting for. He must enjoy her fear as well.

Joffrey continued to watch while his father forced the girl onto the bed. Gently, slowly, he was so patient. And yet the girl was terrified and crying. The kind words did not calm her, they only increased her fear.

And in the end, the king did as he wanted. She could not stop him. Afterwards, he made her agree that it was not so bad, that she had enjoyed it and was grateful to be with the king.

Joffrey could see she was lying, and yet she said what his father wanted to hear all the same.

This was what it meant to be king. This was power. This was what Joffrey looked forward to being when he became King.


	10. Dorne (The Red Viper)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorne's reaction to the Stark proposal.

“My agents tell me that there is a marriage pact with the Dothraki” Prince Doran stated in an off hand manner from his chair, while peeling a blood orange.

“They mean to sell the girl for an army you mean?” replied Oberyn with barely contained fury. Pacing the room like a caged tiger, he seemed to be the more dangerous of the two by far. “Why don’t they marry her to me?”

“You?” scoffed Prince Doran, “you are a savage!” The prince continued to eat his breakfast as if they were discussing the warm breeze blowing in from the Summer Sea.

“As savage as this Dothraki horde? Haven’t you heard that the Khals give their women to their warriors to rape as well? Does that not make us as bad as the Usurper, to let the little princess be raped by a thousand savages?”

Oberyn stopped pacing to look out over the water gardens. There were few children playing today. His brother was always watching the children, always claiming he cared about the children. Was Daenerys Targaryen any less a child?

“It is the price of their army. We don’t have enough men to fight the other six kingdoms alone.” Doran replied sitting calm and still in his chair. "How many children will die if there is a war? Have you forgotten the children that died in Robert's rebellion?" Doran's face turned dark.

“I have not forgotten," Oberyn growled. "We would not be alone. There are still many who remember what the Usurper did to Elia and her children and dislike what the Baratheon King has brought to the Iron Throne. They would fight with us, if only we take the lead.”

“Fight for what, brother?” Prince Doran shook his head, “Without Viserys Targaryen we have no one to put on the throne in his place.”

“Another mad king? A king who would sell his own sister to a Dothraki khalasar?” The Red Viper fumed. This plan was little better than what had happened to his niece during the Sack of King’s Landing. She was barely four when they burst into her room and raped her and killed her. He did not understand how his brother, who was supposed to be the patient and kind one of the two could sit there and shrug about plans to have another girl, just as innocent, face the same fate. Even ten years older, it was still likely to kill her.

"Without enough allies war would only mean the deaths of many children. It is better to let one girl chance her life than many. Perhaps she will enjoy her horse lord? But there is another possibility, if we act quickly.” Doran offered.

“I am always quick, brother, what is this option?” Oberyn felt the jaws of a trap closing around him. His brother played his games of the mind because he was unable to leave his chair and fight like other men.

“It seems there is a young girl in the far north who is eager to meet our young prince Trystane.”

“A marriage proposal?” asked Oberyn.

“From the Starks of Winterfell,” confirmed Doran. "You may remember from your history that the North, like Dorne, was not conquered by the dragons. They chose to kneel. They may choose to kneel again when he Targaryen's return."

“And how does this save the princess from the Dothraki savages?” Oberyn was always ready to act, but often struggled to keep up with his brother’s plans and schemes.

“The North is a very large kingdom, sparsely populates as are we, but still they have many times more fighting men than a single khalasar.”

“So you think these fighting men would rise against the Iron Throne for the sake of this girl who wants to marry your little son? Would she be a hostage for their good faith?”

“I think she can persuade her father to aid us.”

“One man.” Oberyn spit on the floor to show what he thought of this latest scheme.

“One man who is about to become hand of the King. And one girl who is related to the lords of the Riverlands and the Vale as well as the North. One girl who may be able to deliver half of the other six kingdoms.”

“One man who is loyal to our enemy. One girl with ties to houses that fought to put the Usurper on his throne. How does that help?” Oberyn could not see where his brother was leading with this marriage.

“I belive it is a seed we can plant. And then we can send Arianne to her betrothed with an offer of the larger half of the seven kingdoms. The horse lord would no longer be necessary.”

“The Dothrakai seem more likely to be of use. Perhaps Viserys will see though your thin promises.” Oberyn watched his brother carefully, trying to judge the level of his confidence in all these potential alliances.

“You were the one who wanted to save the little princess. I am only offering you an option to do that.” Doran seemed overly smug as he laid out his plans. They were little more than smoke and mirors, but Oberyn still objected to selling the girl.

“Fine. Send Arianne to her betrothed then, promising kingdoms we have little chance of delivering, and let us hope your northern bride will flower into a fine army some day.”

Doran raised one eyebrow in what might have been surprise. “I will see it done.”

Oberyn watched as his brother signaled to Areo Hotah to wheel him from the room. He wondered if he had escaped Doran’s trap or ran right into it.


	11. Highgarden (Margaery)

“You wanted to see me?” Margaery asked, taking a seat next to her Grandmother. She sat straight, projecting confidence as she had been taught. Confidence and grace. She smiled sweetly, waiting for her grandmother to tell her why she had been summoned.

“It seems we have another proposal for you dear,” Olenna Tyrell started.

Margaery smiled and waited for her grandmother to continue, watching her face to get a sense of what she thought about the proposal. They had turned down enough proposals over the years that one more didn’t seem worth mentioning.

“Now, I know your father and brother have their little plots to make you queen. They seem to have overlooked the fact that there can only be one queen, and the job is currently filled. Being a high lady though, a lady of one of the seven great houses, can be just as good as being queen. Sometimes better. I was almost married to a Targayen, you know. I think this is not a marriage proposal to take lightly.” Lady Olenna gave Margaery a pointed look to emphasize her assessment.

“Who is it?” Margaery asked slowly, taking a sip of tea to hide any stray facial expressions that might betray her interest, or lack of interest, in the proposal of the moment.

“It seems the Starks of Winterfell are looking for a match for their eldest son, a boy named Robb who is very close to your age.”

“What do we know about him?” asked Margaery, not wanting to seem too interested. Someone her own age, that was new. Most were twice her age, and a few only half. They had been lesser houses as well, which was the main reason they had not been looked upon favorably.

“Little and less I’m afraid. He’s from the North, and while the kingdom is quite sizeable, it’s not one that gets talked of much in civilized circles.” Lady Olenna paused to think for a moment. “I think it is something we need to consider however, we don’t want you to die an old maid while waiting for a chance to become queen now, do we?”

Margaery smiled a little at her grandmother. “I don’t know grandmother, do we? If the North is of no consequence, then why consider a marriage there?”

“True. I am an old woman and I would like to see you well settled before I pass on. If I leave it to your oaf of a father to marry you after I’m gone you’ll likely end up with a blacksmith or a Florent. I’m not sure which would be worse,” she sniffed.

“I think Loras has been talking of taking me to King’s Landing, to present me at court.” Margaery mentioned, hoping it would be enough to end the discussion of marriage for the moment. Why not give Loras’ idea time to grow?

“Hmp, and why would he do that? Does he hope to make you queen? Maybe he has forgotten we already have a queen, and she is a Lannister. It would be very difficult to set her aside while her family is backing her. I suspect that even if the managed it, the war that would cause would leave you a widow before you gave birth to an heir to the throne. And that leaves you with less than you started, not even a maidenhead to offer your next husband.”

Margaery blushed, “Grandmother!”

“It’s true,” she said, “I’m too old to try to make all my words seem pretty, now to the point. The current king, and his son, are on the way to Winterfell as we speak. If we send you there to meet this Robb Stark and his castle, you will also have a chance to meet both the current king, and the next one. While I doubt your brother’s plan has any merit, Cersei won’t be there to interfere if you want to get to know her husband and son as well as the heir to Winterfell.”

Margaery watched her grandmother nibble at some cheese and sip her wine, while considering the possibilities.

“And if I don’t care for any of them?” Margaery asked. It was true that her brother was often impulsive. She had not considered the possibility of it causing a war, but now that her grandmother pointed it out, Margaery could see it too.

But Lady Olenna was not finished.

“There is also Edmure Tully, a man your close to your father’s age who has not seen fit to do his duty and marry or provide an heir yet.”

She paused for another sip of wine, “Lord Robert of the Vale, a boy of six. Rumors are that he is not fully weened yet.”

Another pause, this one for another slice of cheese, or to let Margaery’s imagination fill in the details of what that marriage might be like.

“Renly Baratheon would be an interesting match if he weren’t quite so attached to your brother.” And with barely a pause, “Oh, and I believe the Imp of Casterly Rock has yet to wed, and by law he is the heir, whatever Tywin may think about it.”

Lady Olenna started rearranging the food on her plate.

“Which do you prefer, my dear?” She raised her eyebrows and waited for Margaery to reply.

Margaery though it over. She was the only daughter of her house, their best chance to make a powerful alliance with another house. She knew that she would not marry for love. But none of the choices appealed to her.

“Perhaps Edmure Tully, the Riverlands seem like they would have more to offer than the North.” Margaery also thought that a husband her father’s age might be preferable to an inexperienced boy of her own. “Do you know why he never married?”

“I don’t. Most likely he’s a sword-swollower like your brother. It doesn’t really matter what else he is as long as he can get you with child. His father is ill I hear, so he may be a Lord sooner than any of the others. Well, except the Aryn boy, but he’s to young yet to give you an heir and secure your place. And the Eyrie is not as desirable as the Riverlands. Edmure might be a good choice,” Lady Olenna nodded as if to herself.

“Then we can wait and see?” Margaery asked. Hoping for a few more peaceful years in Highgarden with her cousins and the young men she already knew and enjoyed.

“No. We can’t. The current Lady of Winterell is a Tully. She is sister to both Edmure Tully and the woman who is still nursing the Lord of the Eyrie. I think we need to send you to Winterfell to see what you can learn. But keep in mind, the boy Robb is the only one that has proposed an alliance at this point. And you aren’t getting any younger, dear.”

“Neither are you.” Margaery smirked at her grandmother. “When do you want me to go?”

“No time like the present,” her grandmother asserted. “I’ll send word to Winterfell that you will be visiting. Go talk to Willas about the details, and see if Garlan would be willing to travel with you. A ship would be good I think, best to be there before the King’s party arrives.”


	12. Winterfell (Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Tywin replies to Tyrion with an ultimatum. Discussions turn to Jon Snow and what to do about the bastard of Winterfell.

Ned was staring off into space when Catelyn entered his solar, a parchment forgotten in his hands. “Ned?” she called, hesitant to disturb him.

Shaking his head briefly, he looked at her. “What is it?”

“I was going to ask you,” Catelyn nodded toward the parchment. The maester left you that message hours ago.

Ned looked at the parchment and took a deep breath. “It's word back from Casterly Rock.”

Catelyn closed her eyes and pressed her lips together tightly as her body filled with tension. She and Ned had not agreed on this proposal. With any luck, Lord Tywin would side with her, but what were the chances of that? He would never get a better match for the Imp. “And what does it say?” She managed to asked, trying to mask her emotions.

“It seems Lord Tywin has reservations.”

Catelyn smiled and thanked the Gods as the tension slowly left her body. “Well, then...”

“He has forbidden Tyrion from returning to Casterly Rock without a wife. A betrothal alone is not enough.”

“Then I suppose the Imp will have to look elsewhere.” Catelyn said, looking at Ned and seeing too much indecision in his face. This should not be a problem, what was he thinking? “She can't be wed, Ned, she's only nine!”

“Yes, that is a problem, but the betrothal would be a protection for her when Robert visits. You may not realize how like her aunt she is.”

“I realize the King already has a wife.” Catelyn spit out, anger taking over. I don't know what's made the two of you so paranoid. The Imp could have ulterior motives, but you, Ned, why?”

“It would not be the first time a King set aside his wife, or worse took a paramour for no better reason than he fancied her look.”

“She's too young...”

“Exactly my point.” Ned banged his hand on the desk as he sat the letter down. “Tyrion knows she is young and has agreed to wait until she's older for the wedding to take place.” Ned looked down sadly, “You've heard the rumors about the King's bastards just like I have. I love the man, but how can I trust him with my daughter.”

“Our daughter, Ned.” Catelyn crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. “She's too young for the King to see her like that. You are jumping at shadows. We can find a better match.”

Ned sighed. “We have discussed the possibilities. Remind me who was better for our wild warrior of a daughter. Dickon Tarly? Robert Aryn?”

_Either of them. Anyone but Tyrion Lannister_ , thought Catelyn, but Ned disapproved those matches as much as she disapproved of the Reed girl for Bran. “Surely life as Lady of the Eyrie would suit her as well as Lady of Casterly Rock.”

“She would eat Robert Aryn for lunch,” Ned shook his head. “You've seen her with the Imp, with Tyrion, he can get her to behave where the rest of us have failed.

Catelyn snorted. It was true, Tyrion managed to persuade her into behaving from time to time, but there was still a lot to be desired from Arya's behavior. “The Tarly boy then, he's said to be a fierce warrior himself.”

“We've talked about this already,” Ned dismissed her concerns. “Arya is a warrior, that doesn't mean she'd be happy married to one. Chances are they would be at each others throats as like as not. I fear he would feel the need to beat her regularly.”

“She will outgrow her willfulness... once she's flowered she will take more interest in the womanly arts. She just needs more time to grow up.”

Ned snorted. “I think you are the one fooling yourself, my lady. My sister was much the same, and flowering did not change her. Worse, her wild spirit was one of the things that Robert was so attracted to. I'd rather see her wed and on the way to Casterly Rock than forced into Robert's bed.”

“You don't mean that.”

“I do. But it will not be necessary. I've invited Tyrion to stay at Casterly Rock until Arya comes of age.”

“Ned,” Catelyn whispered, “that would be years.”

“He has not given me an answer yet, but he is considering it. We should inform Arya of this development as well.”

“I'll go find her.” Catelyn would have asked one of the servants, but felt the need to walk off some of her frustration. As she expected, Arya was not practicing her needlework with Sansa and Septa Mordane as she was supposed to, but by the time she had checked Catelyn felt more in control of her emotions and able to consider the situation rationally. She gave a little laugh to herself. What mother would be rational about her youngest daughter being married, to anyone, at such a young age? Although it did happen. There were always stories about very young marriages that sealed some alliance, usually at the end of a conflict, when the parents were dead though. So there was no one to object. This was NOT like that.

She walked past the training yard where the boys were practicing and saw no signs of her daughter there either. The Imp had been a guest at Winterfell almost a month. He got along surprisingly well with all the children. Even their direwolves seemed to like him. And he had been nothing but helpful to her and Ned, pitching in on a number of projects around Winterfell that could use extra attention. He was clever and actually quite good with managing people. He was just so... short, and incredibly ugly. Catelyn herself could not imagine ever having to kiss the man or share a bed with him. How could she ask one of her daughters to do what she could not?

She finally found Arya in the Godswood, taking animatedly with the Imp. He sat by the pool near the heart tree while Arya told him some story, gesturing with her stick sword. As soon as Catelyn was close enough to be heard, she called out, “Arya!”

The girl looked like she'd been caught doing something wrong. Which, technically, she was, although Catelyn usually turned a blind eye to Arya's refusal to spend all afternoon studying with her sister and the septa. One must choose their battles after all. Tyrion just gave her a wry smile. He had already talked to Ned about his father's response and was supposed to be thinking about the offer to stay on at Winterfell until Arya was of age.

“Did you tell her?” she asked the Imp when she got close enough to be heard without shouting.

“I did, my lady.”

Catelyn just nodded to him. Then she looked at Arya, “Your father wants to speak with you.”

Arya followed her mother back to the castle. Quiet at first, but then she blurted out, “Why can't I just marry the Imp now?”

“You should call him by his name, Arya, Lord Tyrion, not 'the Imp'. How can I let you get married now when you can't even manage basic courtesies?”

Arya pleaded her case. She was good with sums and could manage a household. She and 'Lord Tyrion' got along well. He didn't expect her to wear a dress all the time, or even seem to mind when she called him 'the Imp'. When they got to Casterly Rock he was going to let her have a sword, and a master-at-arms to teach her.

And that was when Catelyn understood. The Imp had won her daughter over with promises to let her run wild and ignore the things normally expected of a high-born lady.

“There are other things a man expects form a wife, Arya,” Catelyn chided her as they entered Ned's solar.

“That's why they have brothels.” Arya said, without missing a beat.

“Arya!” Ned and Catelyn both exclaimed together.

“I know what brothels are for. There is one in the winter town and Theon and Robb go there all the time.”

“Robb?” her Catelyn asked faintly, looking over at Ned.

“I'm sure she's missing some of the details,” Ned said, covering his mouth as if he was about to cough.

Catelyn spend the next hour trying to convince Arya that she did not want to marry Tyrion, while Ned tried to convince her that she needed to wait until she flowered.

“But I don't want to wait.” Arya pouted. “I don't want another husband, and I don't care what he looks like. I'd rather marry someone who isn't going to try to change me into some fancy lady who sits around and sews all the time than some handsome knight from Sansa's songs.”

Catelyn looked down, out of arguments for the time being, and Ned dismissed Arya with instructions to go join Sansa at her lessons. Catelyn shook her head with a half-smile, knowing her daughter would probably end up somewhere else instead.

“Well,” demanded Ned, “do you still think I am wrong about asking Tyrion to stay with us until she's grown?”

“I don't know Ned. It's a long time, five years maybe, and who's to say she won't change her mind between now and then? My sister, Lysa, used to think she wanted to marry a boy from the fingers who fostered with my family, but she eventually saw the sense in marrying Jon Aryn instead.”

“You may be right, and when that time comes, isn't it better for both of them to be here where we can renegotiate the betrothal with Tyrion? He is not the one demanding the marriage, in case you had not noticed.”

Catelyn laughed. “I noticed. Do you think Lord Tywin has any idea what he's asking for?”

Ned smiled at her then. “I doubt it. If she wasn't my own daughter I'd send her to the Rock just to vex him.”

Ned never did care for the Lannisters. They had been late to join the Rebellion, and that could only be attributed to Tywin, as the head of the house. She suspected that Robert's marriage to Cersei so soon after Lyanna's death didn't sit well with him either. It was a power play by the Lannister family without a doubt. And then there was the kingslayer. No, he didn't like the family.

Catelyn could see the advantages of having an alliance between the North and the Westerlands though. If only there was a different son. But if Arya really didn't mind the Imp's looks, or, apparently this proclivity to visit brothels, then what could she really have against the marriage. When Tywin passed away she would be in charge of the richest of the seven kingdoms, and that could be of great help to her brothers and sister in the years to come.

“There have been other messages, my lady.” Ned sounded as tired as she was.

“And?” she prompted.

“Dorne has accepted our offer.”

“So Sansa will have her prince then?” Catelyn smiled a little thinking how different her two girls were in what they wanted. Dorne was so very far away though. “Will they wait a few years?”

“They will, but they suggest that we foster her at the Water Gardens for a time before the wedding so the children can get to know one another before they are wed.”

Catelyn nodded at that. It seemed fair, and she was relieved to know Sansa would remain at Winterfell for now.

“The Tyrells are less certain,” Ned continued.

“Oh?” Catelyn found it amusing that a house like the Tyrells would hesitate while Dorne accepted readily.

“They suggest a visit.”

“Robb can't go to Highgarden.” Catelyn started.

“No, not for Robb to go to Highgarden, but for their daughter to come to Winterfell. They are unsure if she would be able to adjust to the cold climate, or so they claim. If she likes what she sees when she gets here, they are open to a betrothal, or even a marriage in the near future.”

Catelyn spent the next few days walking around Winterfell and watching her children. She felt empty at the thought they would all be grown and married soon. She dreaded the thought of the empty castle. Yet they all seemed content with the arrangements that were being made. Sansa was delighted that she was betrothed to a real prince, and Arya was pleased that Tyrion had agreed to stay at Winterfell until they could be properly married. Even Robb seemed to accept the idea of a betrothal without much problem. She was still concerned about that bit over the brothel Arya had mentioned, but Ned had only promised to look into it and said nothing more. A match between Rickon and Lyanna Mormont was being discussed, one or the other would be fostered so that they could get to know each other.

They were still waiting to hear from the Eyrie though. Lysa had not responded yet, but she was probably mourning the recent loss of her husband. Bran was still completely hers. Catelyn smiled as she watched him spar with Robb. Robb pretending to let him get a few good hits before disarming the boy. Bran wanted to be a knight, maybe even a knight of the kingsguard, which would mean he could never marry.

Ned had been reasonable about that hope and talked of fostering him somewhere instead of arranging a marriage right away. But only after Catelyn had refused to consider any of the girls Ned mentioned, like Meera Reed. He didn't share the distaste for the crannogmen that the rest of Westeros had because he was blinded by his friendship with her father, Howland Reed, who had fought with him during the Rebellion. So many opinions he formed 15 years ago while he was away from her. Which reminded her, they hadn't made any plans for Jon Snow. She wondered if Ned's feelings for the boy's mother were as strong as his feelings about the kingslayer or the crannogman.

Regardless of his feelings, Jon could not just live at Winterfell forever, they had to do something with the boy. And if they were sending all of her true-born children away then she was not going to let him stay. She resolved to bring up the subject of Jon when they retired for the evening.

“And what of Jon?” Catelyn asked, her voice dripping with acid. They had just gone over the plans for the other children and he had stubbornly ignored all he hints about making plans for all of them, never once mentioning Jon.

“It’s harder with Jon,” Ned replied, looking out of the window. “What kind of marriage could I make for a bastard? It's doubtful to be an alliance I would value over his happiness.”

“His happiness?” Catelyn spit out, her mouth hanging open as she stared at her husband. “You would sell off all your true born children to the highest bidders and worry about your bastard’s ‘happiness’?”

She turned, tears in her eyes that she willed not to fall. This was her husband, her family, she had a duty. She stiffened her spine and tried her best.

Turning slowly, as soon as she was sure the tears would not fall, she suggested, “I understand there are a number of high-born bastard girls in Dorne…”

The sand snakes they were called. Wild and dangerous and certainly rumored to know how to make a man ‘happy’. It was more than Jon deserved, but she had to at least appear to be trying.

Ned looked at her, and then turned to stare out the window some more, sighing “Dorne…”

She waited, letting him think on the suggestion. It was a good one, she knew. Gods knew it was hard for her to be so kind to that boy, but for her husband’s sake she would try.

Ned sighed and Catelyn believe he had seen the wisdom, even the kindness in her suggestion when he turned and faced her again. “Not Dorne. We can’t send Jon to Dorne.”

“But we can send Sansa to Dorne?” Why wouldn’t he listen to reason. Wasn’t the boy’s mother from Dorne? He should be right at home in the south with the snakes and the vipers. Why was Ned being so stubborn?

“The Wall may be the best choice.” Ned said quietly, turning away from her anger.

The Wall. Catelyn felt a surge of hope at the idea. At the wall Jon would not marry a sand snake or anyone else. He would have no children of his own and any threat to her own children’s future would be ended when he died. Still, it was a cold and lonely place, and even Catelyn would not have suggested such a fate for the boy that had been such a torment to her these past 14 years.

She felt her anger fade, and replaced with resigned confusion. “You would prefer your bastard to live out his life freezing on the wall with a bunch of convicts than to live in Dorne, but you send our first born daughter there with barely a second thought?”

She felt numb. Ned was stubborn and she could tell that he had made up his mind about these matches for their children. Her girls, both to be sent far from home to forge dangerous alliances.

And in their place? In their place, Margaery Tyrell and Lyanna Mormont would be coming to Winterfell. I was the normal course of life, but it all happened so suddenly and Catelyn was not ready to make such big changes.

And perhaps Lysa’s boy, if Ned’s offer to the Eyrie was accepted, Maybe even her sister. It's not as if Winterfell would be completely empty.

Just then, there was a knock on the door.

“What is it?” Ned asked.

“A message for Lady Catelyn, from her sister.”

 


	13. Pentos (Viserys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arianne and Quentin try to stop a wedding.

Viserys held the gown up for her inspection.

“This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric.”

Dany touched it, then pulled her hand away as if it burned her. “Is it really mine?”

“A gift from the Magister Illyrio,” Viserys said, smiling. “The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess.”

Viserys had waited fourteen years for this day. He had looked after her when other brothers would have left her behind. She killed their mother being born, but now she would pay for that by buying him an army of Dothrakai. He was not a man who would waste an opportunity when it presented itself.

Of course, he had not always known that is how he would use her. When he was younger he thought he would marry her himself and she would birth children for him until one of them killed her. It would be sweet vengeance when it happened. But he would make sure he made full use of her first. He was a patient man. He had waited fourteen years for this day.

She would look like a princess tonight. She would be beautiful and win the heart of the Dothrakai horse lord. And in return for his sister, Viserys would regain his birthright, the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

“What does he want from us?” His sister interrupted his thoughts.

“Illyrio is no fool,” Viserys said. “The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne.”

Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. He wanted what every rich man wanted, the favor or the rulers of the lands he traded in. Viserys had guaranteed him that in return for helping him find an army. He did not expect to pay for the army with his own sister. She was his. He could do whatever he wanted with her. He did not want to sell her for his army. He was patient, but he did not have any other prospects of gaining an army. And fourteen years was a long time to be denied his rightful place in the world.

Her brother hung the gown beside the door. “Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he loos for a different sort of mount.” he studied her critically. “You still slouch. Straighten youself.” He pushed back her shoulders with his hands. “Let them see that you have a woman's shape now.” His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and tightened on a nipple. “You will not fail me tonight. If you do, it will go hard for you. You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?” His fingers twisted her, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her tunic. “Do you?” he repeated.

“No,” Dany said meekly.

Her brother smiled. “Good.” He touched her hair, it was a soft, silvery pale blond like his own. She should be marrying him. That's how the Targayens lived, wedding brother to sister to keep the bloodlines pure. If it were not for the Usurper and his dogs, he would be marrying her himself. For just a moment he let himself think of what that would be like, and then he put the thought aside. There would be no throne unless he let her go. “When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say that it began tonight.”

Viserys left her with her handmaidens to prepare herself. The magister would want to see him, to discuss the upcoming events. He walked through the palace, the heels of his new boots clicking on the marble floors echoed through the large and lavisly furnished rooms. This was the kind of place he deserved to live in.

In his memory, the Red Keep was even larger. He had been but a boy of eight when he was forced to flee with his mother to Dragonstone, and he did not appreciate the luxuries that surrounded him at the time. They lived there for almost a year, while his mother had grown big with his sister.

But then one night, amid a storm that threatened to tear their castle apart, tearing huge stone blocks from the parapets and smashing their fleet while it lay at anchor, Daenerys was born. And then their mother was dead, their home lay in ruins, and the Usurper's dogs showed up to take even that from them. The garrison at Dragonstone had been prepared to sell them out, even after what happened to his brother's children. There were only five loyal men left in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

Viserys blamed it all on his sister. If his mother had lived they would not have been betrayed even by their own servants in the end. But she died, they did betray them.

They lived with one of their loyal men for a time, but then he also died. They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in one place. It was not safe. Even here in the free cities, the Usurper would not rest until they were as dead as his niece and nephew, Rhaegar's children.

At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targayens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usuper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years had passed since they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, even their mother's crown. And now even that coin was gone.

He had heard whispers calling them “the beggar king and his little whore.” The world had turned on him, but he would have it all back one day.

Surely the gods were testing him, asking him to give up even this one last thing. The one thing he had been able to salvage, to protect all these years. He had to prove he was worthy, that he was willing to sacrifice even that, then the gods would restore what was his. His by blood, by birthright. It was his destiny.

“There you are, my prince!” Magister Illyrio greeted him as he walked into the dining room where the Magister conducted all his business. At the table were two strangers. A plain looking boy about his sisters age, and a short young woman a few years older.

“I was just discussing your plans with our friends here.”

“And why is it I do not recognize these friends?” Viserys asked, trying to swallow his anger to avoid offending the Magister when his plans were so close to bearing fruit.

“May I present Arianne Martell, the princess of Dorne, and her brother, Quentin, your Grace?”

Viserys narrowed his eyes and examined the Dornishmen closer. Rhaegar's wife Elia had been a Dornish princess as well. They had been loyal until the Battle of the Trident when a Martell of the Kingsguard had betrayed them. It was the Dornish betrayal that led to their flight to Dragonstone, the reason Elia and her children had not gone with them.

“What do they want?” Viserys snapped. Fourteen years ago, Dorne could have made a difference, but what could they possibly offer now that would make them think he could forgive their betrayal of his father and brother?

“Your Grace,” Illyrio said, with simpering smiles and apologetic looks to the other two seated at the table. “Have a seat. Our guests have a very interesting offer of help for your cause.”

Viserys sat slowly at the table, not happy with this unexpected turn of events. He looked at Quentin Martell and demanded, “Tell my your offer then.”

Quentin was a mere boy. Not only plain, but apparently shy as well. He looked to his sister, and she only nodded back at him with a smirk on her face.

“We want to offer you … Dorne. O-our armies. For my s-sister, the, ah, the princess of Dorne.”

Viserys just stared at Quentin for a moment thinking that this boy would be less help than his little sister, even without her marriage to the Khal.

“The same ten thousand you promised my father?” Perhaps they thought he would not know his history, having lived most of his life in exile.

Quentin and Arianne exchanged another look, and then Arianne spoke.

“Our father ordered the men to King's Landing, but they arrived too late.” She swallowed and looked down at the table a moment before continuing. “King's Landing was sacked, and our Aunt Elia and her children were murdered. We want justice for Elia. My uncle tried to raise an army to fight for you, but the lords thought you too young at the time.” She looked him up and down with burning eyes before saying, “You are not so young anymore.”

Viserys returned her smile, relaxing. This was the same way the whores talked in the pillow houses. He felt more comfortable seeing her for what she was, and the little brother was obviously no threat.

“So you want me to marry you now, for the same army that was already promised?”

“Your grace,” Magister Illyrio hissed at him.

Viserys spared a glance for the Magister, feeling annoyed at his interference. “What is it? Do you not see they only offer me what was already mine? And want to be paid to return it?”

“There was a marriage pact, your Grace.” Magister Illyrio pulled a scroll out of his sleeve, waving it toward Viserys. “The transaction you speak of has not yet been completed. Just as your sister must marry the Khal before he gives you an army, you must marry Princess Arianne before Dorne will fight for you. It is the way they conduct business in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Viserys looked skeptically at Illyrio, but noticed Arianne and Quentin both nodding in agreement.

“So I have to marry this …” Viserys bit back the word whore, “girl in order to get this Dornish army?”

He looked her up and down, judging. “Stand up and let me get a proper look at you then.” he demanded.

Arianne smiled and stood, turning around slowly for his inspection, not at all bothered by the process. If only he could get here to give his little sister a few lessons before they met with the Khal this evening. She didn't lack for confidence, in spite of being short and rather dark for his tastes. He could imagine worse ways to get an army than to have to fuck her.

“Does my prince like what he sees?” She asked coyly.

“Come over here.” He demanded. And when she walked over he placed one hand around her waist and squeezed one of her breasts. She only smiled and stared at him with smoldering eyes. Yes, he could fuck this one for an army.

Viserys smiled. “A marriage pact? The deal is already done then?”

“It is, your Grace,” stated the Magister.

“Why now?” Viserys asked, suddenly dropping his hands from Arianne's supple body.

Again, the two Martells exchanged a brief look. Arianne spoke, “We have good news, your Grace. Dorne has entered into another marriage pact just recently that will give us close ties to three of the other kingdoms. My father thought that with the likely backing of over half the Seven Kingdoms, this would be a very good time to move our plans forward.”

Four of the Seven Kingdoms, with one marriage. Viserys couldn't help but smile at the girl with a little genuine fondness now.

“We were considering a second marriage,” the boy broke in.

His sister glared at him for a moment.

“And what marriage would that be?” asked Viserys.

“My father and uncle heard a rumor that your sister was to be betrothed to a Dothrakai horse lord.” Arianne said in a near whisper. “In return for an army.”

She looked at him for a moment before continuing. “They thought you may not want to have your sister married to a savage if you already had an army. So they wanted to propose my brother instead.”

Quentin blushed and nodded.

Viserys laughed. The thought of this shy young boy with his awkward little sister was amusing. “And do you think he would know what to do on the wedding night? Because let me tell you, my sister certainly does not. The two would never make any children, if that is what your father and uncle are hoping for.”

Quentin turned even redder, and Viserys thought he might enjoy tormenting his future brother-in-law.

“But let me understand your offer, I only have to marry Arianne here to get the armies of four kingdoms? What more would you give me in return for my sister?”

Again, looks were exchanged before Arianne spoke, “We only thought you might prefer your sister to marry someone from the Seven Kingdoms, your Grace. It was intended to sweeten the deal that was already made with our marriage pact.”

“So, nothing.” Viserys looked around at each of them before laughing again.

“No. My sister will marry her khal. I would have his army as well. I would not give her away for nothing. With five armies we will sweep the Seven Kingdoms and restore the Targaryen dynasty.” Viserys reached out and pulled Arianne a little closer to him, almost into an embrace, and then placed his hand on her belly. “For our children.” he promised.

Later that evening, Viserys was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool, his hand trailing in the water. He rose when Daenerys appeared and looked her over critically. “Stand there,” he told her. “Turn around. Yes. Good. You look...”

“Regal,” Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. “May the Lord of Light shower you with blessings on this most fortunate day, Princess Daenerys,” the magister said as he took her hand. He bowed his head, “She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision. Drogo will be enraptured.”

“She's too skinny,” Viserys said, “Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?” While he much preferred her Targayen coloring, Arianne had a much more attractive shape, the shape of a full-grown woman “Perhaps he would prefer my betrothed?”

“Daenerys has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal,” Illyrio told him “Look at her. That silver-gold hair, those purple eyes … she is the blood of old Valyria, no doubt, no doubt … and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new, she cannot fail to entrance our Drogo.”

_That is just the problem_ , thought Viserys. She was the blood of old Valyria and a proper consort for a Targayen king. Arianne Martell as promising as she was of pleasure was closer in coloring to the Dothrakai, and had little if any blood of the dragon. The dragon did not mate with the horse. And yet, he needed that army.

I suppose,” her brother said doubtfully. “The savages have queer tastes. Boys, horses, sheep …”

“Best not suggest this to Khal Drogo,” Illyrio said.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Viserys replied with anger.

The magister bowed slightly. “I take you for a king. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologies if I have given offense.” He turned away and clapped his hands for his bearers.

The evening went well, just as planned. The Khal did indeed like young girls and the deal was made. For the first time in years, Viserys went to bed happy. It was a good day when you could win five armies to your cause. He smiled and fell asleep dreaming of Dragonstone and the Red Keep, of the Seven Kingdoms, from Dorne to the Wall.

It all would be his soon.

 

 


	14. The North (Margaery)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margery's journey to Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined the two Margaery chapters into one - this one, and will be posting a new chapter to replace the second half.

The breeze was biting against Margaery's face as the boat made it's way upriver toward Barrowtown. Second largest city in the North, and the closest thing to a port along the Western coast, she could barely make out a direwolf banner fluttering in the midst of the small party that was waiting for them, but had yet to see any sign of a town. “Can you believe it's still summer?” she asked her brother.

Loras laughed. “Maybe winter has already come... your face is so red, sister, do you plan to play the shy maid then?”

Margery raised her hands to cover her face. Her nose and ears were nearly frozen. “It's the wind,” she snapped, hoping all the girls in the North were chronically wind-burnt. Their trip had been hurried and she was forced to travel lighter than she would prefer. They took a ship past the Iron Islands and into Blazewater bay past the Rills. From there they transferred into a smaller boat up from Saltspear. From Barrowtown it was just over a hundred leagues to Winterfell, almost a week of hard riding. There was no room for chests of clothing, or anything else. They had only the bare necessities. According to Loras, they should be well ahead of the King's Party by now. Margery would use every day they had at Winterfell before the King arrived to learn about the dead sister he fought a war for and make herself as attractive as she could, starting with getting rid of her red and chapped skin.

As they drew closer they got a better look at the waiting group. A man, a boy, a girl, and a smaller boy.

“Do you think that's your betrothed?” asked Loras, obviously fixating on the older boy.

“My betrothed,” Margaery replied, emphasizing the word 'my'. It was good to see Loras perk up a little. He had spent most of the journey so far moping about Renly.

“He looks handsome.”observed Megga as Garlan and the other girls joined Margaery and Loras on deck.

“Are you glad the journey is almost over?' asked Garlan.

“Almost over? With a week of hard riding still ahead of us?” Margaery laughed as her brothers exchanged a look.

“Do you think the older man is the current Lord of Winterfell then?” asked Margery.

“ I doubt it,” replied Garlan. “Winterfell must be busy preparing for the King's arrival. I doubt they wou8l be able to spare their Lord for two weeks right now. More likely one of the household guards. A good chaperone for you.”

“You think I need a chaperone?”

“Oh, not for you, sister, for him. Someone has to protect the boy's virtue,” replied Garlan.

Margaery's three cousins twittered like a little flock of birds. Loras just smirked at her, before giving a little start.

“What is it?”

“Not what, who,” Loras looked suddenly alert. “That is the Lannister Imp.”

“I thought you said we were at least a month ahead of the King'sParty.”

“He wasn't with them. I thought he was at Casterly Rock.”

Margaery contemplated what the Imp's presence might mean. Cersei was in the capitol and Littlefinger was talking to her about Margaery and Prince Joffery. It would be inconvenient if she were to learn Margaery was in Winterfell getting to know Robb Stark at the same time. Someone might need to distract the Imp during their visit. Margaery wondered whether Megga or Elinor might provide the better distraction, or if she should handle the Imp herself.

When the boat came to shore by their welcome party the two men waded out into the river to guide their boat while the Imp was left holding the Stark banner next to the girl. That seemed strange, but promising, that he was not flying his own house's colors.

The boy gave her and her cousins a hand out of the boat and then helped transfer their meager luggage onto the horses. He acted more like a servant than a future lord.

Meanwhile the Imp was urging the girl forward.

“Winterfell welcomes you,” she said. The Imp whispered something to her before she continued with a huff, “my lady.”

Before she could reply two large dogs approached her. No, not dogs wolves. Margaery looked around for some help. The Imp and the girl were undisturbed and the others were busy with the luggage.

The white one, an albino judging by the eyes walked right up and started sniffing around her womanly parts while the other, wilder wolf, started making a low, growling sound. That was when Alla screamed.

“Ghost! To me!” called the boy. And the white wolf turned and obediently bounded over to him.

Meanwhile the Imp gave the girl a look. “Arya...” he said, sounding like an exasperated father.

“Oh, fine,” she muttered under her breath. “Nymeria, sit.”

“And how do we greet our guests?” prompted the Imp.

“I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell. This is my betrothed, Tyrion of House Lannister.” She recited the words in a sing-song voice while rolling her eyes. “And over there is my brother, Jon Snow, and Rodrik Cassel, our master-at-arms.”

“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” corrected the Imp. The future Lord of Casterly Rock, and his … betrothed. Margaery had to work hard to keep from laughing at the thought of this wild little savage growing up to be the Lady of Casterly Rock. _What would grandmother have to say about that?_

Margaery only gave Arya a big smile, ignoring the lack of courtesies, and introduced her own party. “These are my cousins, Alla, Megga, and Elinore, and my brothers,” she turned her smile on Tyrion and said with a little emphasis, “Ser Loras Tyrell, and Ser Garlan Tyrell.”

Margaery was relieved to see a little softening around Arya's eyes and a small smile as she shot a triumphant look at the Imp.

“Well met, my lady,” replied Tyrion with nod. Just then, the wild wolf, Nymeria, decided to start sniffing where the other, Ghost, had left off. Alla squeaked again, and backed away into her two older cousins.

“Don't worry, she won't hurt you,” said Arya, her voice full of warmth that had been missing while she forced herself through the required introductions. “She just wants to get to know you. They should have sent Sansa. She's the one whose good at her courtesies, but she doesn't like riding much, so they let her stay in Winterfell and sent me instead.” The girl was practically gushing near the end, when she finished by calling her wolf away.

The men were finished with the luggage and helped Margaery and her cousins mount their horses and head into Barrowtown to spend at least one night of their long ride to Winterfell under a roof.

The journey was tough on all of them, but Margaery tried to lighten everyone's spirits. She didn't complain about her own aches and pains, but instead talked to everyone from the Winterfell group in turn.

Arya told her stories about the Barrow Kings and the White Walkers, stories she heard from an old woman named Nan. And she told her about the Lord and Lady of Winterfell and all her brothers and her sister Sansa who was such a delicate little lady that she couldn't make a journey like this one – and that was why Arya never wanted to be a lady – because they just sit around in castles all day sewing.

Margaery laughed at Arya and told her that there was a lot more to being a lady than sitting around and sewing. Arya just gave her a skeptical look and galloped off to chat with Ser Rodrik.

Jon Snow told her more about the castle and it's hot springs, something she was looking forward to experiencing first hand. And, of course, about her intended, Robb, how they found the direwolves by their dead mother in the snow.

“What killed her, do you know?” Margarey still found it hard to believe they were still just puppies.

“Robb found an antler in her throat, it had to be a stag.”

Margaery shivered a little to think that was the Baratheon sigil, it felt like an omen even just hearing about it. She didn't believe in signs or fate though. Margaery believed that people make their own luck -- through their daily choices. She tried hard to always make the best choices herself to ensure her personal store of good luck never ran short.

In the evenings, Loras would seek out Jon Snow for some sparing. Margaery did not even want to think about doing anything physical after a full day on horseback. She was a good rider, and road often, but for a few hours at a time. Their days were much longer, ten or twelve hours of pushing their mounts, hoping to shave a day off their travel time and get back to the castle as soon as possible.

She suspected that Loras had other motivations to spend time with the handsome young man. She heard a little less about Renly and a little more about Jon Snow each day. Not to mention, Garlan didn't seem to feel such an obsessive need to train each night. Instead, he seemed to prefer talking with Tyrion Lannister in the evening. She walked by one night, wondering what they had to say to each other, her warrior brother, and the twisted little man.

“Wilas has the same trouble,” Garlan was saying. “You couldn't stop the girls from following him around before his accident, but now...”

“Now they don't seem as interested in being the Lady of Highgarden.” the Imp replied with a sardonic grin.

“Strange as that seem.” Garlan replied. “I think my father might have considered setting him aside in favor of me as his heir,” Garlan looked a little embarrassed to admit, and adding quickly, “I didn't want it. Not like that.”

It's a good thing, thought Margaery, moving on. Grandmother did not consider either Garlan or Loras fit to be the Lord of Highgarden. She approved of Wilas though, probably more since his accident than before. Margaery sighed, and looked at the Imp. She supposed that it was not that much different at Casterly Rock with Lord Tywin. He undoubtedly favored his whole son over the deformed one. But that didn't seem likely with the Kingslayer in the kingsguard. She wondered whose idea this match between Tyrion and Arya was, his or his fathers, or were the Starks more ambitious than people thought?

It was the morning of the forth day. They were half way to Winterfell. Margaery sighed as she tried to stretch out her sore muscles. She was an excellent horsewoman, everyone said so. But Maegaery was discovering there was quite a difference between riding a few hours a day and riding ten or twelve. The girls were all struggling to hide their discomfort, eager to arrive at Winterfell and enjoy the hot spring-fed pools Arya and Jon had described.

Margaery looked around the small tent at the three heads of her handmaidens poking out from under their shared blankets. She sighed again as she realized that Arya's head was missing. The girl must have lived on horseback in Winterfell. Even after making the trip to meet Margaery's party, she didn't seem to mind the days in the saddle - or the nights on the ground for that matter.

Margaery ducked through the tent flap, and was hit in the face by something cold and damp. “Agh! What is that?” She wiped her face and stared at the white crystals in her hands.

“It's snow, stupid,” Arya was laughing at her with what appeared to be a snowball in her hand. Sure enough, another bunch of cold ice crystals were dripping down inside the front of Margaery's dress and Arya was sprinting off across the camp.

Margaery gathered her wits, and her skirts and took off after Arya, losing her balance just as she caught up to her. Both girls tumbled over into a bank of snow, laughing.

“You little RAT...” breathed Margaery. “Is this snow?”

“Haven't you ever seen snow before?” Arya asked.

“No,” Margaery gathered a handful and squeezed it, grinning a little. “Last winter was so short and mild. We didn't get snow in the Reach.”

Margery scooped up some more snow. “Show me how to make a snowball.” She demanded.

Arya showed her, a little reluctantly, and then asked, “what are you going to do with that?”

Margeary gave Arya a big smile and a wink. “Why, we are going to make some more and go wake up the other girls.”

Arya returned her smile and then she and Margaery tiptoed back into the tent and tossed their snowballs at the other girls. The girls woke up squealing only to have Margeary drag them out of the tent in their nightdresses to romp in the snow.

All the noise woke the boys, who stumbled groggily out of their tent to investigate only to be ambushed by Margaery and her gang.

It didn't take much time for them to mount their own counter-attack. Led by Jon Snow who quickly grabbed Arya and dumped the laughing girl head-first into a snow bank. Loras and Garlan followed with an arsenal of their own, pelting Margaery and her cousins with at least twice as many snowballs as the girls had thrown.

Finally, Ser Rodrik called for them to quit playing and break camp. “We still have plenty of hard riding between here and Winterfell, if we don't get started now it will mean another night on the ground.”

On the evening of the sixth night, they found themselves at Castle Cerwyn, a relatively easy half-day's ride from Winterfell. Lord Medger was reserved, but welcoming. He sent his daughter Jonelle to Margaery and her handmaids to help them freshen up from their journey before continuing toWinterfell to meet Robb and the rest of his family.

The woman was near thirty, plump with a splotchy complexion. Margaery was skeptical of the strong-smelling creams she was offered for her wind-burnt face and chapped lips, but she accepted the lotions politely and waited until the older girl had left the room to set them aside. There was some possibility that the woman would be one of her vassals someday and Margaery wanted to create goodwill, just in case. A plan the Cerwyn's all seemed to share.

Margaery enjoyed her bath, tried smoothing on one of the less pungent creams and then dropped gratefully into a large featherbed. Elinor rolled over with a mumbled, “you smell like a stable,” before resuming her soft snoring.

Margaery lay awake longer than she expected, wondering about Robb and Winterfell. She thought about the stories Tyrion had told her of his nephew Joffery, not to mention King Robert and Cersei's attempts to have his bastards removed from sight. Jon had said something about Lady Stark not approving of him because he was a bastard as well.

If Margaery was going to be queen, she would be the one dealing with bastards rather than Cersei Lannister or Catelyn Tully. How would she react? Jon seemed nice enough, and it was obvious he loved his half-sister Arya. If Robert had a bastard that was that loyal to a child she gave him, would she still hate it? He already had more than anyone seemed to be able to count. Would the skills her grandmother taught her keep the King loyal after they were wed? She doubted it.

But the other option was a spoiled little boy who, from the Imp's stories sounded quite cruel as well.

Or Robb, brother to Jon and Arya, a boy everyone seemed to like and admire. And the north, with it's snowy summers and remote castles. It was a choice between personal luxury and a warm loving family, and not one that Margaery found easy to make. There was however, one other factor. As Queen, she could do a tremendous amount of good for the whole realm. It was not so likely that she could have that kind of influence as Lady of Winterfell. For the good of the realm, she really should be queen, no matter who she had to marry to get there.

 


	15. Winterfell (Catelyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn welcomes Margaery to Winterfell

Catelyn was busy. The King was coming with half the court, but before that they would be hosting a party of Tyrells from Highgarden. While many of the preparations were the same, Catelyn found herself feeling put out at the urgency of the Tyrell visit. She had not expected the Tyrells to object to the match on the one hand, nor to be in such a hurry on the other.

Something about that did not sit well with Catelyn, but she could not deny that the North was a hard place to live and the girl might not adjust well to the climate. It had certainly been hard for Catelyn to adjust to Winterfell, but she had managed in time.

Maester Luwin brought the message from Castle Cerwyn to her over dinner. The Tyrells would arrive shortly after mid-day on the morrow. She sighed and looked critically at her eldest son. “You will need to get ready as soon as dinner is done. The Tyrells will be here tomorrow.”

“Tonight?” asked Robb, looking surprised.

“Yes. Tonight. You need to see the barber first, and then bathe. Once you are clean come see Sansa and me. We need to put the finishing touches on your new clothes.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “I don't see what all the fuss is about. Isn't she coming to see how cold it is at Winterfell? What does it matter what I'm wearing?”

“You need to make a good first impression, Robb. The girl will be judging you just as much as your castle.”

“And if she doesn't like me, or the castle, then she can go back to Highgarden. There are plenty of other girls up here in the North who would be happy enough to be Lady of Winterfell. I don't see why I need to try so hard to please some Southerner.”

Catelyn looked to Ned for support but could see he agreed with his son. They didn't understand how uncivilized they appeared to anyone from the south.

“Ned?”

Ned smiled faintly. “Do as your mother says. You are representing Winterfell and the North. You don't want to make a bad impression. It is a matter of honor, not of how well she thinks of you.”

Catelyn shook her head. It wasn't as much support as she had hoped for. Ned was uneasy about the Southern houses. His father had “southern ambitions” and Ned still considered that one of the causes of Robert's Rebellion. He had been persuaded though, once she pointed out how beneficial the alliances with the south could be when winter came. Having his children in strong positions to send food and other necessities was the most persuasive argument she had given him.

Later that evening, Robb tried on the new doublet she had made him. Sansa had stitched a direwolf that clearly resembled Grey Wind on the breast. Robb approved of the stitching if nothing else. He had more trouble than usual standing still while they marked the final adjustments for the garment.

“Are you nervous?” asked Catelyn.

“Why should I be?” Robb replied in a petulant voice.

“A marriage is a big commitment. Your father and I have not been as dutiful as we should have in preparing you for it.” Catelyn still felt guilt at having put off the subject for so long.

“I know what marriage is, mother.” Robb still seemed unusually annoyed.

“Do you disapprove of the match? There is no commitment yet, this visit gives you as much chance to back out of the arrangement as it does her.”

Robb sighed. “I just haven't thought about it much.”

Catelyn smirked. “But you've been visiting brothels of late?”

“That was Theon's idea. I told father. Nothing happened there. I just talked to some of the girls while Theon. Well, while Theon...”

“I know what Theon was doing.”

“Well, he did. I didn't.”

“Aren't you interested in girls?” Catelyn asked curiously. Some men weren't after all.

“I am. It's just. I don't know. I hadn't thought much about marrying anyone. I'm won't even be a man grown until my next nameday.”

“True. But many high-born children are betrothed by the time they are Bran's age. The actual wedding may not take place for years.”

“Do you think the Tyrell's will wait for years?”

“No. You are not a child, Robb. And neither is Margaery. She's flowered, they will want her wed sooner, not later.” Catelyn could still remember how much of a hurry her father had been to find a match for Lysa. If Jon Aryn hadn't accepted her he might even have been desperate enough to give Petyr another look. Lysa was different than Catelyn though. Catelyn had been more reluctant to explore than Lysa. Even though she was the younger sister, she enjoyed the kissing games they played with Petyr more than Catelyn ever had.

“I didn't feel ready to be married when I wed your father, but in time everything worked out fine.” Catelyn tried to reassure her son.

“You were supposed to marry Uncle Brandon.” Robb observed.

Catelyn laughed a little. “Yes. I was not much more ready to marry him, to be honest. I did at least have a chance to meet him before our wedding was to take place. That would have made it easier if I had met him in the Sept. The first time I saw Ned was on our wedding day. That was hard. I'm glad that you have a chance to meet Margaery, and even more glad you have a chance to approve or disapprove of the match. I did not have that with Brandon any more than I did with your father. I married only for duty.”

“Maybe that's better.” Robb mumbled.

“Why do you say that?” Catelyn asked, surprised.

“It's just. What if I like her – but she doesn't like me? What if she does like me, but I don't think she'd make a good Lady for Winterfell? It might be easier if we just met in the godswood and took our vows without having to think about it first.”

Catelyn smiled at her son. “You will be fine. I know you will make the right choice.”

The next day she was up early and directing the servants to prepare the rooms for the Tyrell party. She shook her head again at the rush to visit. Four highborn ladies riding hard all the way from Barrowtown, for nearly a week. Warm baths would be the key to making them feel welcome. She made sure that the rooms were well stocked with warm robes and slippers and plenty of skin creams to soothe their skin, comfortable chairs and plenty of wood for warm fires, the finest linens for their beds.

Catelyn was determined not to let anyone think that Winterfell was full of little more than wildings. For the honor of the North. She smiled a little to herself at Ned's reasoning from the night before. In truth, she was excited to have visitors from the South and wanted more than just to avoid giving the North a bad name. Would it be too much to ask that some of Margaery's female companions were women of her own age? As busy as she was, Winterfell could be lonely at times too. She would welcome the chance to share gossip form the South.

Sansa was even more excited about the visit than Catelyn. She had helped to dress her younger brothers and even groomed their direwolves until their fur was as soft and silky as her own Lady's was. While Robb was withdrawn and reticent, Sansa was bouncing with energy.

“Will she be beautiful?”

“I've been told that she is.”

“More beautiful than me?” Sansa pouted a little at the thought.

“She would have to be very beautiful even to match you.” Catelyn took a moment to stroke Sansa's hair. Each woman had her own claim to beauty, and Sansa's hair was hers. It was likely Margaery would have a more womanly figure, since she was older. Catelyn felt another moment of unease. She hoped that the girls would be friends rather than rivals.

The morning passed so quickly that Catelyn was caught off-balance when Ser Rodrik came riding into the courtyard announcing that the Tyrell party was just behind him, nearing the Wintertown.

Catelyn organized her children in a receiving line from youngest to oldest. Robb would be introduced last, in hopes that they would enjoy a longer conversation than the others had time for. She and Ned stood behind Rickon and Shaggydog as the party entered Winterfell.

At the front were Arya and Tyrion, with Nymeria trotting along between their horses. Catelyn was surprised to see Arya wearing a Southern style riding outfit with her hair done up in an elaborate southern style. She glanced at Tryion who seemed distracted by something one of the Tyrell knights was saying, then at Ned who only grinned and raised an eyebrow.

Next came Margaery with a knight on either side, most likely her brothers. All three were beautiful, with the blonde highlights in their light brown curls shining in the sunlight. Margaery's hair was styled simply, long and loose with two small braids wrapping around the side of her head to keep it slightly tamed. She glanced toward Sansa, not at all unlike Sansa's hairstyle.

Three young women followed Margaery, also sporting something like northern hairstyles, and the youngest in the clothes she'd expected Arya to be wearing. So it seemed they would adapt quickly, and might have at least as much influence on her youngest daughter as Tyrion Lannister did. Catelyn grimaced inwardly. After all these years of trying to tame he youngest daughter, these strangers came along and made it look so easy.

Bringing up the rear was Jon Snow smiling at whatever the Tyrell handmaid in Arya's clothing was saying. Catelyn stiffened at the sight of him. Ned had yet to tell him about his decision to send him to the Wall. She wondered if he would still be smiling once he heard.

Tyrion and Arya dismounted and came to stand on Ned's other side. Next came the Tyrell children, led by Margaery. Ned welcomed them to Winterfell, and Margaery introduced her brothers, Garlan and Loras, and her cousins: Elinor, Alla, and Megga. Megga was the one wearing Arya's cast-off riding outfit, although it fit her a bit more snuggly and did nothing to hide the curves that were threatening to emerge any day.

Margaery greeted each of the children in order, and their direwolves, something Catelyn noticed made Robb smile the first genuine smile she'd seen in over a week. Arya was smiling widely and watching the older girl as well, with what looked like a bit of pride. Had she been giving the Tyrell girl tips on how to win Robb's affections?

“We'll be having a small feast this evening to celebrate your arrival, perhaps you would like to rest and clean up from your journey until then?” Catelyn offered. “Robb, can you show Margaery and her companions to their rooms?”

Robb left with Margaery on his arm gushing about how wonderful Winterfell was, and telling stories about snowball fights on the way here. It looked like the girl knew exactly how to win her son's heart.

“Isn't she great?” asked Arya.

“She seems... nice.” Catelyn replied. “Did she style your hair like that?”

“No. Megga did it. She says with it braided this way I won't have to comb it for days, maybe even a week or more.” And with that Arya ran off after Robb and the Tyrells.

“She's wonderful, isn't she?” Sansa gushed, “And did you see her brothers? They look so gallant! Oh, I wish we could have a dance with our feast tonight.”

Catelyn smiled at her daughter. With all the changes in Arya and Robb, at least she could rely on Sansa to be the same girl she had always known.

“She even made Arya like her...” Sansa pointed out.

“Yes, she does seem to have a talent for winning people over.” Catelyn shook her head, uncertain if she was happy about that or not. “Why don't you go see if you can help the Tyrell women settle in. Send to the kitchens if they need anything.”

Sansa trailed after the Tyrells a little more reluctantly than Arya did. Catelyn wondered again if the girls would become friends or rivals. It did not take long to answer that question. By dinnertime Sansa was giggling with Margaery and Elinor while Arya was content to plot with Megga and Alla. The boys were just as eager to talk to Loras and Garlan about knighthood and tourneys, although with a bit more hero-worship than the girls were displaying.

It made her uneasy again, watching Robb talk to Loras. He hung on every word the boy said. It reminded her of Jaime Lannister's visit to Riverrun. He never did find time to talk to Lysa with her Uncle Brynden there to distract him with tales of knighthood. She would have to remind Robb who it was he was supposed to be getting to know.

The next morning Margaery gave Catelyn yet another cause for concern.

“You must be terribly busy preparing for the King's visit. Is there anything I can do to help?” The girl asked, barely past daybreak.

“I thought you would want to sleep late after a week of hard riding.” Catelyn replied, surprised to see Margaery up so early, and not sure what to think of an honored guest volunteering to help with the daily work of the castle.

“Oh, I am so glad we aren't riding anywhere today. It's such a relief not to have to mount a horse right now! I don't think I'll ride anywhere for days. But I really want to get to know Winterfell, and what better way than to help you with your work? I am supposed to find out if I'm suited to be the Lady of Winterfell someday. Who better to learn from than you?” Margaery smiled nicely as she clung to Catelyn's arm, not entirely unlike she had been clinging to Robb the day before.

There was nothing wrong with Margaery's behavior, and her request made more sense than Catelyn wanted to admit. It just made her uncomfortable, like the day her children got their wolves and Sansa shoved Lady in her face. It was too much, too soon.

“It's really not a good time to try to explain things to someone new.” Catelyn tried to reason her way out of spending the day with Margaery. “I think your time might be better spent getting to know Robb. He takes lessons from Maester Luwin in the mornings with the other children. Maybe you would like to join them.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to be so pushy.” Margaery apologized. “I'm just so excited to be here. And I do want to help, if you think of anything.”

“I'll let you know.” Catelyn promised. Then she pointed out the maester's turret to Margaery and suggested that Maester Luwin might be able to use her help in preparing the days lessons.

Catelyn shook her head again, _was I ever so young and enthusiastic?_ Maybe before Brandon was killed. Didn't I picture him as the chivalrous knight that Sansa sees in the Tyrell men? That starry-eyed young girl had died along with Brandon, and the Lady of Winterfell had taken her place by the time she met Ned in the Sept for their wedding. But that was so long ago.

  
 


	16. King's Landing (Cersei)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just taking a quick look at what's happening outside of Winterfell, I'll have another Winterfell chapter tomorrow - from Tyrion's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've combined a couple of the earlier chapters, so you may have missed the one before this - Catelyn in Winterfell. Other than that, the changes to earlier chapters are mostly fixing typos.

Cersei woke, sweating and moaning. She could not remember her dream, but she knew she wanted Jaime. She needed him, now, inside of her. But he was halfway to Winterfell by now. She writhed in her bed, touching herself and trying to find the satisfaction her dream had denied her. She felt empty. She had a hole inside her where Jaime should be. And holes needed to be filled.

She glanced around her chambers and licked her lips. Perhaps there was something... she simply could not reach the spot that she needed to on her own. There was a dagger in it's hilt. As long as Jaime, but not as thick. She kept looking, and stroking the dampness between her legs. She wanted more, but she could not bring herself to stop what she was doing in order to go get any of the increasing number of objects that reminded her of her brother's cock.

She was panting, her wrist ached with the effort, but she felt she was close to the release that she needed when there was a loud knock on her door.

“Not know,” she gasped out, stroking herself faster. But it was too late, the release she sought receded into the distance.

“It's the master of coin, he says it's urgent.” replied the guard from the other side of her door.

“Give me a minute.” Cersei growled with annoyance. She slipped out of bed, pulling up the covers and drawing on her bed robe. She could smell herself on her fingers and feel the moistness between her thighs, but there was no time to bathe.

“Send him in,” she commanded, resigned. Hoping keeping a respectable distance between herself and Littlefinger would be enough to keep the brothel-keeper from noticing her condition.

Petyr Baelish entered her chambers, neatly dressed and groomed, and entirely too perky for such an early hour. Sometimes Cersei hated him.

“Your Grace,” Littlefinger bowed. “I've just returned from Highgarden with news I am certain you will want to hear immediately – and in private.

“What is it?” Cersei said, running her hand through her hair, wishing she had made him wait until she could bathe and dress properly.

“It seems the Tyrell girl I told you about has made a sudden trip to Winterfell.”

“So she is after Robert?” Cersei was trying to remember the conversation she had before Littlefinger left for Highgarden. Loras and Renly were plotting to introduce the girl to Robert, and Littlefinger wanted her to do something. What was it? Oh, yes find the girl another match.

“Not openly, your Grace. It seems that the Starks invited her north to meet their son, the heir to Winterfell.”

Cersei smiled. Well then that is taken care of. She could marry Winterfell and freeze her tits off when winter comes. “That's wonderful news. But you could have told me later, when the small council meets.”

“Oh, I don't think that would have been a good idea.” Littlefinger grinned at her. “Loras went with her as part of her guard, and no doubt he and Renly still want to get her to meet Robert. Whose to say that they will leave before the King arrives?”

“It will suffice if she is betrothed by then.” Cersei still did not believe that Robert would set her aside, not matter how pretty this girl was. Many of his whores were pretty as well. He had his fun, but she was still his wife.

“Still, if you were to offer her a better match...” Littlefinger prompted.

“And who would I offer her?” Cersei snapped.

“You have a son who is almost of age.”

“Joffery?” Cersei scoffed. “He is too young to be married, and even if he was not, the Tyrells are just up-jumped stewards, I would not have Joffery married to a Tyrell.”

“Who then?” Littlefinger inquired, all curiosity.

“I have not given it any thought yet, he is still so young.” And it was true. Cersei intended to rule though Joffery for some time, and a wife would only get in the way. She had been hoping to rid herself of Robert for some time, but had to deal with his brothers first. She had not been idle in her husband's absence. She had already made plans, even made Stannis the acting hand to prevent him from suspecting her.

First, she would get rid of the troublesome brothers, then her husband, and then she would be the Queen Regent for her son.

“How long until he comes of age?” Littlefinger interrupted her train of thought.

“Two years.” She replied. The math was easy, but when she thought of her plans it seemed that two years was not very long at all. She would be lucky if she had even a few months of rule before Joffery could rule in his own right. And he was never that easy to control. What if he resisted her help? What if he was more interested in ruling than Robert? She could try to distract him, but as he got older...

Perhaps a wife would not be a bad idea. But not a Tyrell, they were far to ambitious. Joffery needed someone shy and pliant. Someone who could be easily distracted by life at court, but pretty enough to keep Joffery from objecting to Cersei's rule.

In time he would come to rely on her. He would see that she what she did was in his best interest and let her have her way. He would be king in name, but she would be the true power behind the throne.

Littlefinger had turned to look out at the city. He appeared to be in deep thought.

“The Starks have a daughter too.” He started slowly. “And there is a princess in Dorne, but she is quite a bit older than Joffery. The great houses seem to be lacking in daughters. Surely, Margaery Tyrell is a better match for Joffery than the young Stark girl. I do not think she is old enough to marry yet.”

“Neither.” Cersei said flatly. Although, she would probably prefer the Stark girl, the younger she was, the easier it should be to intimidate her. And the Starks were never that ambitious. They seemed happy in the North. In many ways the girl might be the ideal wife for Joffery. But Cersei was not ready to share her son, or her power with anyone yet.

Littlefinger smirked at her. “Eventually, he will need a wife, and heirs to ensure your family legacy.”

“Eventually,” Cersei agreed, “but not for a few years at least. I will consider the issue, but it is not a priority at the moment.”

“Then what is a priority?” Littlefinger asked, his glance straying to her bed briefly.

Cersei felt herself blush, and again wondered if he would notice her scent in the room.

“It must be difficult to be separated from your husband for so long.” Littlefinger suddenly changed direction. “You know that I happen to own a number of fine establishments that cater to a wide variety of tastes. We have a rather surprising number of female customers as well. If you should ever feel the need for … company, you need only let me know. I can arrange anything you like, with the utmost discretion, of course.”

“Of course,” sneered Cersei. Although it was tempting. With Jaime away she had no one to warm her bed for her. And this morning was not the first time she had found herself wanting him to distraction. “I think it's time for you to leave, Lord Baelish. I need to prepare for the day. There are many important things for me to take care of. All this talk of marriages can wait for another day.”

“As you wish, your Grace.” Littlefinger bowed and left her chambers. Cersei called for her maids to prepare a bath.

Cersei plotted as she soaked in the hot, scented water. Her maids changed her sheets and straightened her chambers, eliminating all evidence of her restless night. She thought about how one day Joffery would be expected to marry. And wondered if his wife would fulfill an old prophecy about a younger and more beautiful queen. Perhaps she should find an ugly wife for Joffery. But then an ugly wife would hardly keep him occupied. She also thought about the ladies of the court and wondered which ones might require Littlefinger's discreet services, as well as exactly what kind of services he might offer.

She pushed those thoughts away. She was more disciplined than that. She had an opportunity while her husband was away to set some things right. She could not afford to wait to make sure Stannis and Renly were neutralized. Someday, soon Cersei hoped, Robert would die. And when he did she did not want the younger Bratheons to get in her way.

Once she was dressed and her hair was done, Cersei sent for her hand, Stannis. Robert's little brother was almost as useless as Robert, but he was proving pliable to her desires. He didn't balk when she wanted someone punished, and for that at least she was grateful.

“Do you miss Storm's End?” Cersei asked Stannis.

He gave her a strange look, but only asked, “Your Grace?”

“Storm's End. Your ancestral castle, or have you forgotten since Robert granted you Dragonstone?” Cersei could feel herself running out of patience. Stannis never did seem very familiar with how this game was played. She had granted him the position of acting hand, and while he accepted and did all that was asked of him, he showed no gratitude. What would it take to soften this man, she wondered.

“I have not forgotten, your Grace, but Robert saw fit to give Storm's End to Renly, as you may remember.” Stannis' cheek twitched as he ground his teeth.

“He did not intend for you to keep Dragonstone forever, you know.” Cersei had practiced the lie for days. In truth, Robert had intended to slight his brother by taking Storm's End and giving him Dragonstone instead. A “reward” for letting the two Targaryen children slip away. But that was not how everyone saw it. Dragonstone had always been the home of the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince Regent. At the time, Robert had no heirs of his own, so his brother was the natural choice. If Robert had been smart enough to see it. If Stannis had been smart enough to see it. But the Baratheons were not the brightest family in the seven kingdoms.

“Dragonstone has always been the home to the heir to the Iron Throne.” Cersei pointed out to Stannis. “You were the only one that Robert could give Dragonstone to at the time. It should belong to Prince Joffery though. I have been thinking that it's past time that Joffery take over the lordship of Dragonstone and you relieve Renly of his duties as Lord of Storm's End.”

Cersei watched Stannis' face as he considered her words. There was no joy. She would have expected joy, or at least some sign of satisfaction. There was only deep thought.

“I don't want to offend your little brother, of course, but his appointment was never intended to be permanent. We will, of course, have to find him a suitable position before you return to Storm's End. I was hoping that you might have some suggestion as to what that position might be.”

Cersei watched him again, inwardly cursing his stony faced silence. What was going on inside his head?

“I will consider what you've said. I had not thought what else Renly might do.”

“Very well,” Cersei smiled at Stannis. Any other man would see the look as an invitation, but Stannis did not seem to share a normal man's desires. “We have a small council meeting soon. I need to freshen up a little beforehand. I shall see you there, and we can discuss Renly's future more later.”

Stannis seemed only too glad to leave her.

Cersei wondered if even Storm's End would be enough to satisfy her brother-in-law. He was stern and prickly. He often complained of how Robert had slighted him, but he did not seem to love her any better for giving him the very things he complained that Robert did not.

There were other ways to take care of the man, but Cersei hated to resort to murder if she didn't have to. She needed allies as well, and Robert's little brother would be an excellent ally just for the symbolism. It was obvious he would never be good for much else. The man himself was intolerable.

Renly was another problem. She wondered if maybe he would be a good match for the Tyrell girl. Assuming she didn't jump at the chance to be the Lady of Winter. Renly would not have a castle after Stannis returned to Storm's End. Perhaps if she could arrange a Tyrell wedding before then, they would think they were gaining the stormlands, but in reality she would end up in some small castle owing allegiance to Stannis or some other lord. That would teach her to reach too high.

Cersei smiled as she entered the small council room and took the King's seat. She looked around at each of her councilors, thinking she had them all where she wanted them. Stannis appeared just as immovable as ever, but she noticed he kept glancing at Renly and she knew he must be thinking about having Storm's End again. Renly was all smiles and japes. He must be happy that she was not attempting to thwart his plot with the Tyrells. Varys and Pycelle were hers as always. Only Littlefinger seemed of questionable loyalty. Perhaps if she took him up on his offer to provide her certain services she could get him safely on her side as well.

The only way things could get better for Cersei was if Robert died on his little trip and never came back. But it didn't matter. She would be ready for him when he did.


	17. Winterfell (Tyrion)

 Tyrion was breaking his fast with Lady Catelyn and her girls when Margaery arrived with Bran and Rickon in tow.

“Did Maester Luwin find something for you to do?” asked Lady Catelyn.

“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “I helped him with some cleaning and organizing in his turret and then he sent me to make sure the boys were fed and ready for their lessons.” Margaery smiled at Bran and Rickon.

Bran returned the smile easily, but Rickon seemed a little shy. Not unlike he had been with his wolf pup at first. Tyrion figured it would not take the younger boy much longer to warm up to Margaery. She had a talent for getting people to like her.

“Oh, and there is a message from the King's Party, they just arrived at Moat Cailin.” Margaery handed delivered the message to Catelyn. “Maester Luwin says that means they should be here in about six weeks, depending on the weather. Did you know the royal wheelhouse requires 40 horses to pull it? Your maester knows the most interesting things.”

Six weeks? Tyrion sent a quick, and probably pointless thought to the old gods hoping for snow. The more time before he had to deal with Cersei the better.

Then Tyrion noticed the way Margaery was looking at their breakfast. “We're having porridge this morning. It's a northern delicacy.” He gave her a half grin and a look that suggested she should humor her hosts. “I find it quite nice with a little of this brown sugar.” He passed a dish of sugar toward Margaery as a servant handed her a bowl of porridge.

Her smile was a little dimmer than usual as she took a tentative bite. Tyrion couldn't blame her. He had never seen the dish south of the neck, and had been more than skeptical the first time he tired it at an inn near Moat Calin. He was glad it had been an inn and not while visiting one of the northern houses as Margaery was doing. He could see that Lady Catelyn in particular was disturbed by the girls reluctance to join in the meal.

After breakfast, Tyrion joined Lady Catelyn as she reviewed an inventory of supplies and made plans to order missing items for the royal visit. He had been at Winterfell for four months before riding to meet the Tyrells and in that time the Starks had found a number of uses for his well-trained mind, especially when planning for the royal visit. They had come to rely on him for information about the Kind and Queen's expectations.

Arya had loved the adventure and watching her had almost made the aches and pains worth being there. Almost. She got along well with the Tyrell girls, which surprised Tyrion. She hated the thought of being a lady someday, and he had expected Margaery Tyrell to rub Arya the wrong way at every turn. Instead, the older girl had laughed at Arya's failed courtesies and even taken her side more than once when he tried to correct Arya.

But it was really the younger handmaidens that Arya spent the most time with. Megga, the youngest by a few months, was loud and often almost as rude as Arya. Once they had discovered each other, the two were nearly inseparable. Alla was too shy to object to anything the other girls did, in spite of being the oldest of the three. Arya and Megga often enlisted her as “chaperone” when they planned anything the might be considered questionable.

Meanwhile, Margaery had been a good sport about the snowball ambush, the sheep shit in her pillow, the somewhat regular food fights, and a number of stains and tears to he otherwise very nice clothing. The oldest of her handmaidens, Elinor, patiently repaired any damages, but tended to avoid Arya while frequently flirting with Jon Snow when her duties allowed--an activity that Loras Tyrell found entertaining as well. Jon seemed to be more flattered than embarrassed by the Tyrell boys advances. Most of them did come in the form of compliments or offers to train together. It may be that Jon Snow was not aware of any underlying motivations. He was painfully aware of Elinor's interest however. He could not look at her without blushing.

Tyrion had a chance to get to know the bastard, Jon Snow better on the trip as well. He may be a bastard, but it seemed Lord Stark gave him more respect and responsibility than Tyrion had at the rock. In spite of that, it was clear that Jon hated being a bastard, mostly because of the way Catelyn Stark treated him. Tyrion tried to get Jon to see his life wasn't so bad, but all Jon could see was how his true-born brother Robb was praised for each accomplishment, and no matter how hard Jon tried – or even how good he was, he never got the same attention. Tyrion could relate to that all too well. It seemed like Jaime and Cersei got praised for breathing, while he only got noticed when he was being punished for something.

Tyrion found himself repeating his father's words, telling Jon that wanting to be loved would get him nowhere, and while Lady Catelyn was not the best step-mother a boy could hope for, she could be much worse. King Robert got twins on one of the serving girls at Casterly Rock and Cersei had managed to have them both killed before they were old enough to walk.

Jon only pointed out how good Lord and Lady Stark had been toward Tyrion. Once it was clear he would be staying on at Winterfell until Arya was old enough to marry, they had found tasks for him to do. The more he did well, the more important tasks they gave him. A growing list of responsibilities that left Jon Snow more wary and irritable toward him, even as Lady Catelyn grew more accepting.

They were so impressed with his abilities, they even sent him to greet the Tyrells. He would have to try to be a little less impressive. His arse was too sore to sit and his back was too sore to stand. In spite of the pain he was feeling, he was glad to be back at Winterfell, to feel his true skills would be put to good use again.

The days settled into a routine over the next week as the Tyrells found their place at Winterfell. Galan and Loras were usually in the yard helping train the Winterfell men. Margaery and her maids joined Sansa in her lessons each day, and now and then could be found causing mischief with Arya as well.

Robb and his younger brothers could be found more often than not in the yard, training with Loras and Garlan Tyrell. It seemed like Loras and Robb were growing quite close while Jon Snow was spending more time with Garlan now.

Margaery came up beside Tyrion and leaned against the railing watching the boys spar. “Are they still fighting?”

“They never seem to tire of it,” Tyrion replied. “If you aren't careful, I'm afraid your pretty brother may steal your betrothed from you.”

“We aren't actually betrothed yet.” Margaery pointed out.

“And do you have a plan to change that fact?” Tyrion asked bluntly. He thought he saw Margaery squirm a little at the directness of the question. He knew Lady Catelyn had been wondering the same, but was too polite to ask. What were the girls intentions here anyway? It seemed she was doing her best to charm everyone except for Robb.

“I am considering options for my future.” She replied after an unnaturally long pause.

Tyrion pondered what options might be considered better in Winterfell than in Highgarden. “You wouldn't be waiting for the King's arrival to make any firm commitments, would you?” he inquired, watching for her reaction. And there it was, she was good at hiding her thoughts behind her flirtatious courtesy, but there was a moment before she tried to deny any interest in the King's party that Tyrion could see a hunger in her eyes. An ambitious look on her face that reminded him more than a little of his own sister.

“You should try to spend a little more time with the boy if you don't want anyone to suspect your motives.” Tyrion advised her.

“What would you suggest? I get the impression he may be avoiding me.” Margaery replied.

“A regular evening walk in the godswood perhaps?” Tyrion suggested, again paying more attention to the emotions that flickered across her face than the words she chose to reply with.

Margaery shivered a little. “I don't care much for the godswood.”

“It is an impressive place, isn't it? It almost makes me think the old gods are watching me whenever I'm there. I've found it's not so bad if I have company.” He often spent the afternoons in the godswood watching Arya beat up on one of her younger brothers with broken branches and listening to her spin fantasies about what her life would be like if only she could become a knight.

Margaery might have to take a slightly different approach with Robb though, so he offered, “The glass gardens would serve as well if you would prefer them. The point is to spend some time getting to know Robb. Else how can you truly weigh your options?”

Margaery smirked at him and promised to consider his advice. Later that evening Tyrion noticed she was walking on Robb's arm in the direction of the glass gardens. _Good,_ he thought. She seemed like a nice enough girl and he'd hate to see her throw away her future on his nephew, that spoiled little excuse for a prince. Why was it so hard for young women to see him for what he was?

The next day, Margaery approached Tyrion and thanked him for his advice.

“Did you have a nice walk last night.”

“Oh, very nice.” Margaery said with a wicked smile. And then she waved down to the practice yard. Robb was watching her and waved back.

“Ah, much more promising.” Tyrion remarked.

“Yes.” Margaery sighed. “I do like him. And Winterfell is lovely, but it's so far away from everything. And the weather! It's so cold now, I hate to think what it will be like in the winter.”

“There is that.” Tyrion agreed.

“It won't matter to you, of course, you will be back in Casterly Rock by then. I've been talking to Maester Luwin and Old Nan, and you should hear the stories they tell about winter. What do you suppose I would do all winter when the snows come and cover the castle.” Margaery sighed. “If only I could take Robb back to Highgarden with me. He is quite handsome, and a good kisser too.”

Tyrion grinned at that, and the wicked look in her eyes when she said it. He suspected she could find some way to stay warm through the winter if she put her mind to it.

“So you would prefer to be Lady of Highgarden then?” he asked her. “How many brothers do you have standing in the way of that desire?”

“Three.” Margaery didn't even blush. She sighed instead. “And I love every one of them dearly. I don't want to steal their inheritance. But I also hate to think of living so far away.”

“King's Landing would be much closer.”

“It would,” she nodded, “and I could visit Highgarden as often as I liked if I married someone in King's Landing.”

“The only problem with that is that the most likely someone is my nephew Joffery.”

“And what's wrong with that?”

“He's a bit young, don't you think?”

“He's only a few of years younger than me, that might seem like a lot right now, but the difference would hardly be noticeable when we were older.”

Tyrion wondered if she thought of that herself, or if some well-meaning relative had put it in her head.

“Age is not everything, there is an even bigger gap between the two of you in terms of maturity. Anyone can see what a responsible and kind young woman you are. Joffery on the other hand,” Tyrion shook his head. “Have you considered what it would be like to be married to a spoiled two-year-old?”

Margaery looked shocked. “Isn't he's your nephew! ..and prince regent. Should you be saying such things?”

There isn't anyone here in Winterfell I'm worried about overhearing my opinion of our crowned prince. In fact, I already shared my opinion with Lord and Lady Stark – when they started looking for matches for their daughters.”

“And how well that worked out for you.” Margaery pointed out. “You just happened to end up betrothed to one of those same daughters.”

“I did.” Tyrion paused to think what more he could say to Margaery that could help her make a wise choice in this case.

“But that was not why I told them the truth of Joffery. I don't believe they were considering him in the first place.”

“Why not?” Margaery looked genuinely curious now. “Wasn't there an aunt who was betrothed to King Robert before the war? I would think they might find it natural to try to connect their houses with another match.”

“How well do you know the history of Robert's Rebellion?” Tyrion asked, wishing he had a glass of wine at hand.

“Well enough. Prince Rhaegar was in love with the Stark girl and fought a war for her, but they both died.”

“Our current king was betrothed to her before the war started, but she died. And then he married my sister. I don't think it made either of them happy.”

“But your sister is the queen.” Margaery protested.

“And do you think that being a queen would make you happy?”

“Of course it would.” Margaery replied with conviction. “And there is so much good I could do as queen, and for all seven kingdoms, not just one.”

Tyrion barked a laugh. “Do you think my sister has done any good in her years as queen?”

Margaery huffed. “It's not about what she has done, but what she could do. I would be a good queen.”

“And Cersei isn't?” Tyrion responded. Not that he could think of anyone that would be a worse queen than Cersei, but he felt a need to remind her that they were talking about his family.

Margaery had the grace to blush at his reprimand, and that encouraged him to continue. “She isn't, it's true. And King Robert, well, he hasn't burned anyone yet, like the Mad King before him. But I could imagine a better king, and it's not Joffery. He's spoiled and even cruel at times.” Tyrion tried to gauge Margaery's reaction before he continued.

“My sister. She wanted to be queen. She would spin tales when she was a girl about what a wonderful queen she would be, how all the people would love her for all the good things she would do for the realm. And then she married Robert. The rest his history. You may think that you will have power as queen to do whatever you want. But you don't. You would be limited to whatever your husband let you do. And you may think you can change a man, or get him to see things your way.”

Tyrion shook his head, pausing to watch the young men spar for a few minutes before continuing. “I think, you are as likely as anyone to be able to sway your husband to your way of thinking. I imagine you would have quite a hold over Robb Stark there. But Joffery is not Robb Stark.”

Tyrion left Margaery to ponder his counsel and went in search of some wine. He felt like he had a hangover after that conversation, so he must deserve to get truly drunk for a change. He was grateful that Arya had found some new playmates and might not notice if he was absent from the godswood this afternoon.

Another week passed and Margaery and Robb were frequently seen walking and talking in the evenings. Robb would show her different parts of Winterfell and each morning she would recount some of the tales he told her of Winterfell's history while the broke their fast. Lady Catelyn seemed to warm toward Margaery more and started assigning her simple duties to help in the preparations for the royal visit. Margaery embraced each new task with cheerful enthusiasm.

In the afternoons, Tyrion made a point to mention the tasks Margaery was helping with to Arya, hoping to get her to think about all the things that ladies did besides sewing. He despaired of making much impression when her typical response was to ignore his comments ask him to spar with her instead of talking about “stupid things”.

Tyrion was surprised when one afternoon Margaery sought him out and asked, “Do you know where the crypts are?”

“I do.”

“Could you take me there?”

“I could, but why would I want to? Why would you want to? Wouldn't you rather wait until Robb gets around to giving you a tour himself?”

“There is something I need to see.” Margaery seemed upset.

Tyrion considered her request. He had been in the crypts with Lord Stark. If there was one place more forbidding than the godswood, it would be the crypts. “I have heard rumors of a dragon in the crypts, are you thinking of seeking it out?”

“The dragons are all dead.” She dismissed his attempt at a jape. She more agitated than he had ever seen her, almost desperate. And that piqued Tyrion's curiosity enough to overlook his own misgivings and agree to show her the crypts.

The air cooled as they climbed down the steps, and Tyrion thought he could feel the animosity of the King's of Winter. His back and legs ached from the climb and he begged Margaery to wait a minute or two as they reached the first level of tombs.

“You don't think there is really a dragon here, do you?” Margaery asked, looking around by torchlight.

“No, not a dragon,” whispered Tyrion. “More like vengeful spirits. Can you feel them, my lady?”

“Maybe.” Margaery said, and reached out to hold his hand as they started down the row of tombs.

“Did all the Starks have direwolves?” she asked. They were passing by the King's of Winter, and each King had a direwolf carved at the foot of his statue.

“The old kings seem to. And swords, the swords are supposed to keep the spirits from wandering.”

“It looks like most of them have been rusted away.”

Tyrion looked at her face. He could see both wonder and fear in the flickering torchlight. Whatever she needed down here must be important. It did not look like she had any love for the place. He couldn't help but shiver a little himself, the cold was a good excuse, but he couldn't get past the feeling he was bing watched and judged by these stern stone faces.

“What do you want to see?” Best to get their business done and leave as soon as possible. Whatever that business might be.

“I want to see the aunt. The one King Robert was supposed to marry. Maester Luwin said she's buried her and there is a statue.”

“There is.” Tyrion led Margaery to the end of the occupied tombs and held the torch up to Lyanna Stark's face.

“She does look a lot like Arya.” Margaery observed.

“She does.” Tyrion agreed. “I'm not betrothed to Arya because I told the Starks how awful Joffery is. I'm betrothed to her because Eddard Stark is not completely confident that King Robert won't see Arya as Lyanna reincarnated.”

Tyrion wasn't sure why he shared that with Margaery. Maybe it was because she was a pretty girl, and still holding his hand. Maybe it was the feeling of being watched and judged made him feel compelled to tell the truth.

Margaery made a happy sound and squeezed his hand, which made Tyrion more aware they were still holding hands, and suddenly discomforted by that fact. He let her hand go and added, “and because for some reason none of us understands, she likes me.”

Margaery looked at him closely, in a way that made Tyrion feel very uncomfortable. It felt like she was judging him too. Not like most people, who glanced his way and saw a dwarf or an imp and moved on quickly, but really weighing his soul, just like the King's of Winter. He did not like the feeling.

And then the smile dropped off her face. It was a nice smile, almost certainly fake, but always present. In it's place was a serious look that seemed quite out of character.

“Would you keep a secret?” she asked, grabbing his hand again with both of hers and holding it close to her chest. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breasts.

“Of course,” he promised, hoping she couldn't see him blush in the dim torchlight.

“Even if it might harm someone in your family?” She pulled his hand a little closer until he could feel her softness as well.

“Well, that depends on who it would harm, my lady. I do not always love my family, but I am loyal to my house.” He could feel a sudden heat in his loins.

“What would you do if your sister was no longer the queen?” Margaery said in a hushed voice.

Tyrion let out a laugh, too loud for the crypts and cringed as it echoed around them. So much for not waking the vengeful dead. “I do not see any way that my sister would give up being queen. Unless you have some plan to kill her?” Tyrion often wished his sister dead, but he felt bound to prevent anyone from actually trying to kill her.

“What if King Robert set her aside? She would still have Casterly Rock, and might find another husband some day, one that would make her happier...” Margaery continued, dropping his hand to a more comfortable position, unless you thought too long about what was beneath her skirts. But she was talking about the King and his sister. He should not be thinking about her skirts. “You said even Lord Stark was worried about him noticing the resemblance between Arya and Lyanna. He must think it's possible.”

She leaned closer to him and Tyrion's eyes suddenly found it hard to look anywhere but her lips.

He licked his own lips, it had been too long since he had a woman, and he was suddenly finding it hard to breathe, not to mention follow the words of this conversation.

“I don't think Lord Stark was considering marriage as much as … well, the King has a number of bastards. He has not been completely faithful to my sister.”

“You think that King Robert would try to seduce Arya?”

Tyrion grinned a little at the thought of anyone trying to seduce Arya. “Not me. But Lord Stark wants to protect his children, and he believes our betrothal would help keep Robert from looking at Arya in the first place. At least that is his hope.”

“If King Robert doesn't care for your sister anymore than he seems to, then why do you think he would not set her aside for some other woman?” Margaery dropped his hand then, and Tyrion drew in a relieved breath. She did have a talent; he was not sure whether to envy or pity Robb.

“He may not love my sister, but the throne is deeply in debt to Casterly Rock. I don't think he could afford to set her aside. My father would consider it an insult and call in the crown's debts. That doesn't mean he won't have other women.”

“But those other women would not be queen.”

“No.” Tyrion almost felt sorry for the girl. “No, they would be his whores, and that's all.”

So that was what she was thinking, that somehow she could seduce King Robert into leaving Cersei and marrying her. Better than setting her sights on Joffery perhaps, but not likely to happen. And here she was in Winterfell, with a nice young man who could truly love her and would probably be happy to let her share in ruling the North, but she was blinded by her desire to be queen.

“Do you think there is a resemblance?” Margaery asked, taking the torch from him and examining the statue closer.

“We already noticed the resemblance between Arya and her aunt. Don't you think we should go now?” Tyrion was ready to leave, more than ready to leave.

“Not to Arya, to me.” Margaery was studying Lyanna closely.

Tyrion sucked in his breath. “It's a foolish idea,my lady. King Robert is a drunk. My brother stands guard at his bedchamber and listens as he entertains whores every night. Not one, many. He would not be a good husband. Do you really think he would share his power with you when he has a half-dozen other women in his bed every night?”

“If he had a wife that could make him happy, he wouldn't need other women. You can go if you like.” Margaery dismissed him the warmth in her voice had vanished. Tyrion felt the loss of their imagined intimacy like a punch to his gut.

He lit the torches on either side of Lyanna's statue and left her there staring at Lyanna Stark while he walked back past the King's of Winter alone. He was no longer afraid for himself, but he worried that Margaery Tyrell might not make it out of the crypts sane, if at all.

 


	18. Winterfell (Sansa)

“Margaery?” Sansa called softly. She never liked the crypts. Thoughts of ghosts bothered her as she made her way toward her Aunt Lyanna's statue. She had been looking for the older girl and asked Tyrion Lannister if he had seen her. He told her she was probably down here.

Sansa avoided coming to look herself for nearly an hour, but finally gathered up her courage to go down into the crypts with only Lady by her side.

“Margaery?” she called again, nearing Lyanna's crypt. Lady let out a quiet whine. 

“Sansa,” Margaery seemed surprised to see her.

“I've been looking for you everywhere. You were going to help me with my hair tonight.” Sansa reminded her.

“Oh, I was. Has it gotten that late?” Margaery asked.

“It's not very late yet,” Sansa admitted. “It's only I was looking forward to spending time with you. And the hairstyles are so complicated, I wasn't sure how long it would take... why are you down here in the crypts, Margaery?”

“I heard stories of your Aunt Lyanna and wanted to come pay my respects.” Margaery said.

“To my aunt? She's been dead forever... since before I was even born.” Sansa felt a little guilty that a stranger to Winterfell would feel more strongly about her aunt's death than she did. “What stories?” Sansa never heard much about her aunt, except that she had been kidnapped and then died in the war before she was even born.

“Oh, it was so romantic.” Margaery gushed. “Your Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar fell in love and ran off together.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, it didn't happen like that. Rhaegar kidnapped her. My Aunt Lyanna was betrothed the the King. Well, not the king then, but the king now. She could have been queen, but she died instead. There isn't anything romantic about dying before your true love can rescue you.”

Margaery smiled and took Sansa's arm. Sansa was grateful for the warmth of the other girl, not just because of the cold air, but because she was so clearly alive and breathing next to her.

“Is that what they say up here in the North? That she was kidnapped?”

Sansa nodded. They didn't talk about it much, but that was always the story.

“Interesting,” pondered Margaery. “Maybe they didn't tell anyone when they ran off. Maybe her family assumed it was a kidnapping. In Highgarden we always hear about the great tourney at Harenhall where Prince Rhaegar named Lyanna Stark the queen of love and beauty.”

Sansa drew in a breath. She loved tourneys. She always dreamed that one day a handsome prince would name her the queen of love an beauty. In the weeks since the Tyrell's arrived in Winterfell, her prince usually looked a lot like Margaery's brother Loras. But that was just a fantasy, Loras was not a prince after all.

“I never heard that story.” Sansa said hesitantly.

“Oh, it's true. My grandmother was there. She said it was quite the scandal. The prince's wife Elia Martell was there and he rode right past her to Lyanna. I think that is my grandmother's favorite part of the story.” Margaery laughed lightly and then leaned closer to Sansa and said in a whisper, “She hates the Martells.”

“Why?” Sansa whispered back. She was betrothed to a Martell. A prince, but he would never become king. They just called the Lords of Dorne princes instead of lords. Arya had confided that the betrothal had been the Imp's suggestion. It seemed well-meant, considering he was looking for a wife too and could just as easily asked to marry her himself. She shuddered a little at the thought. She never imagined her prince looking like Tyrion Lannister.

“Oh, the Reach and Dorne share a border. There have always been conflicts between us and them. It's a little like the feeling between the North and the wildings I imagine. I've overheard some of the same jokes from the servants as we hear in the Reach, except in the reach it's always Dornishmen who do dumb things, while here it is the wildings.”

“But the Dornishmen don't steal women from the Reach, do they?” Sansa asked.

“Well, not recently,” admitted Margaery, “but there were some cases when my grandmother was a girl. One of her close friends disappeared and showed up later married to the Lord of Starfall.”

Sansa nodded, wondering if being married to a Prince of Dorne would be just like being married to the King-Beyond-the-Wall. She felt another shiver run through her.

“You've heard the song about the Dornishman's wife?” Margaery asked, and Sansa nodded.

“That was written by a man from the Reach.”

Sansa smiled at the comment, but felt that anxious feeling again immediately after. It felt wrong to smile here, among the dead, to talk about jokes and songs.

“I think we should go, Margaery. I don't like it down here.”

“Just a few more minutes.” Margaery tugged Sansa's arm and pulled her a litle closer to Aunt Lyanna's statue.

“She died.” whispered Sansa. “In all the stories, she died. That doesn't seem very romantic.”

“I wish she could talk to us,” Margaery sounded so dreamy. It made Sansa stop and think and look closer at the statue.

“They say my sister Arya is a lot like her.” Sansa offered.

“I've heard that. I suppose they do look quite a lot alike.” Margaery sounded a little disappointed by that fact.

“Oh, not really,” Sansa offered. “Everyone says how beautiful my Aunt Lyanna was. No one says that about Arya. I think you look more like her than Arya does. I think they mean that she was wild like Arya. Father once said she would have carried a sword if my grandfather had let her.”

That seemed to please the older girl.

“Can you just imagine what it would be like?” Margaery asked her, “To have a prince be so in love with you he'd leave his own wife? To be so in love with him that you ran away from your family and your betrothed. They must have been deeply in love.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. No, they weren't in love. Lyanna was kidnapped. She would not have run off when she was betrothed to someone else.”

“Really?” Margaery asked, smirking. “And if you and Prince Joffery fell in love you would not even think about breaking your betrothal and running away with him?”

Sansa's cheeks flamed, but she didn't think Margaery would be able to see that in the torchlight. “Of course not,” she lied, starting to dream about how Prince Joffery, who looked exactly like Loras Tyrell would save her from a loveless marriage to the fake prince of Dorne.

“We really should go,” Sansa whispered, looking around through the gloomy darkness. Shadows of the Kings of Winter danced on the walls and she could imagine they were all laughing at her pathetic lie. _You are no Stark._ They were judging her. _A Stark is honorable. A Stark is honest. How dare you come her and claim to be one of us while you dream of committing such dishonorable actions._

“You are right,” Margaery said, letting go of Sansa to put out the torches on the wall next to Lyanna's statue. Sansa felt empty and alone as the older girl stepped away from her. She reached out for Lady and placed her hand on the direwolf's head. For just a half a moment Sansa could smell the rotting bodies and hear a dozen small footsteps of tasty treats scratching at the walls, and feel a comforting hand on her own head. She blinked her eyes and was watching the shadows of the King's of Winter again when Margaery reached out and took her hand. Margaery's presence was solid and warm. And she smelled much better than the dead things. Funny how Sansa had never noticed that smell in the crypts before.

Sansa walked hand in hand with Margaery back to the steps that lead out of the crypts. They gossiped about dresses and hairstyles and who Margaery's maids had crushes on. By the time they reached Sansa's room she had forgotten all about the disturbing feelings she had in the crypts.

Sansa watched herself in the polished metal as Margaery arranged her hair in the most elaborate Southern style she had seen yet.

“You will be more beautiful than the queen,” claimed Margaery, smiling at their reflection.

“Oh, but I've heard the queen is the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms. Even my father says she is beautiful, and he hates her for marrying King Robert after my aunt died.”

“Well, you will be at least as beautiful as Queen Cersei. Surely your Septa has taught you about the four seats of beauty?”

Sansa tried to remember if Septa Mordane had ever said anything about beauty at all. She usually confined herself to talking about how proper ladies acted rather than how they looked. Sansa shook her head a little, pulling one of her braids out of Margaery's hands.

“Now look what you've done!” Margaery said with fake exasperation, laughing a little as she juggled the other braids to pick up the one that escaped.

“There are four seats of beauty, and every woman has at least one. They are the hair, the eyes, the mouth, and the neck. If a woman has two of these she is pretty, three will make her a beauty, but four will make her exceptional. I have three, my hair, my eyes, and my mouth. My neck is too short to be beautiful though.” Margaery pouted at Sansa's reflection. "When I'm in Highgarden I can make up for that by wearing low-cut gowns. It's too cold up here though. I used to think Northern women had no sense of fashion. But know I can see why your dresses are all cut so high around the neck.”

“It's fine for you, of course, you have a beautiful neck and it looks good in any gown. And you have the hair, eyes, and mouth as well. No one will be more beautiful than you, Sansa. So you had best learn how to use that beauty wisely.”

Sansa started to blush, but then saw the look Margaery gave her was completely serious. “What do you mean, 'use my beauty wisely'?”

“Consider the Queen. Everyone says she is beautiful and I have heard that she does possess all four seats of beauty. But she does not use them well. Her hair and throat are always presented in their best light. But she never learned to use her eyes and mouth to their full advantage. She allows her emotions to cloud her beauty, and so does not have as much influence over King Robert as she could.”

Margaery expounded on the art of being a beautiful woman until Sansa's hair was all in place. “And that's only the beginning, Sansa. I will tell you more tomorrow. I can't let my good-sister go to Dorne without knowing how to survive at court, can I?”

Sansa just nodded, trying to absorb all the things that Margaery said. She didn't think that Septa Mordane would approve of them, or her parents either. And yet, at the same time she felt that they were all absolutely true. She wondered how many of these arts Margaery planned to use on Robb when they were married.

That night Sansa dreamed she was in the godswood with her brothers and sisters playing. It was a good dream. She was happy and felt warm and loved, until Nymeria nipped at her ear a little too hard. Sansa sat up in bed panting and looking around her room. She almost expected to find herself in the godswood, the dream had been so real. Until Arya, no Arya's wolf, had bit her ear.

Sansa reached up to feel her ear. It felt sore, as if a wolf pup had playfully nipped at it. Lady was always gentle when she did that. She pulled her hand away as the pain faded into memory.

Sansa got out of bed, putting on a robe and some slippers. She always ran to her parent's room when she was little and had a nightmare. This wasn't a nightmare exactly, but the dream unsettled her and she felt like she needed to talk to someone about it.

She paused outside her parent's door. There were raised voices on the other side. She pushed the door open just a crack.

“You still haven't told him,” her mother accused.

“He does not need to know yet. When the time comes I will be the one to tell him. Can't you allow him a few more weeks of childhood? Is that so much to ask?”

“None of our other children are allowed a few more weeks of childhood,” she sounded distressed, almost on the verge of tears. “Did you see Sansa's hair tonight? And Robb... he will dishonor that girl before the betrothal is set.”

“He won't. I've talked with Robb. He understands the consequences and is being more careful than you know.”

Did they really think Robb would dishonor Margaery before they were wed? Margaery didn't seem to think so. She complained that Robb barely kissed her, let alone did anything that could lead to dishonor. Sometimes it almost sounded like Margaery wanted to be dishonored. Or maybe she was only trying to play one of the games she had mentioned beautiful women could sometimes play with men.

 They are all growing up too fast and will be leaving too soon. You should tell him.”

“To what end?” her father asked.

“To prepare. It's not fair to wait until the day he has to leave. Let him have time to adjust to the idea.”

“He's often talked about joining the Night's Watch. I think he will be fine when the time comes.”

They were talking about Jon joining the Night's Watch. Sansa wondered if her mother was aware of the things Margaery had told her about using her beauty to influence a man. It didn't sound like it. It sounded like she was angry, and anger marred your beauty. Or so Margaery said, and Margaery was vey beautiful, and everyone seemed to love her too. Could someone so close to her own age really know secrets that her mother had never learned?

The talk turned to her Aunt Lysa in the Eyrie, the one whose husband had just died. That was sad, but her mother seemed angry.

“Lysa still hasn't replied about Bran or Theon.”

“No,” her father's voice seemed strained.

“I know she thinks the Lannisters are to blame for...” and then her mother's voice dropped lower and Sansa couldn't hear what the Lannisters had done.

“... but you think she could still take a moment to answer our request. If she doesn't want to foster Bran, then she could let us foster little Robert. She could even come herself. She can't be happy in the Eyrie now that Jon is dead.”

“Her grief must weigh heavy on her, Cat. Be patient. I've sent a raven to the Royce's directly asking about the match for Theon. It was only courtesy to ask Lysa's permission first. And I've been watching the boys train. We could consider fostering Bran at Highgarden where he could squire for Garlan or Loras Tyrell.”

“He can squire for my uncle.” Mother was using the same tone of voice as she did when she told Aray she could attend to her needlework. Sansa didn't think that was going to persuade father though.

She turned away and padded back to her room, her dream all but forgotten as she pondered all the things Margaery had said about winning friends and influencing enemies. Maybe her mother was an example of a beautiful woman who did not know how to use her beauty. But Sansa had a chance to learn how to use her own beauty to it's best benefit.

Maybe it wasn't Robb's honor they needed to worry about. Sansa smiled a little. She felt as willful as Arya, but she couldn't see why the gods, old or new, would give her a gift and expect her not to use it to get what she wanted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many wilding does it take to light a torch? - Twenty. One to hold the torch and 19 to scale the wall and steal a Flint.
> 
> Anyone game to try the Dornish version?


	19. Winterfell (Robb)

Robb leaned against the castle wall watching Jon spar with the Tyrell brothers. He was good. And he was learning fast. Robb had not considered Jon very often in the past. He was just the bastard, and a younger brother too. There had never been a time when Robb did not consider himself to be naturally superior to Jon.

They had always been friends, and as close as any brothers. Because they were so close in age, Robb was closer to Jon than to Bran or Rickon. Today he found himself wondering, for the first time in his life, how things might have been like if Robb was the bastard and Jon the true born son.

“I thought Jon was the one who liked to brood.” Margaery came up beside him and slipped her arm into his. Robb reached over and placed his larger hand over hers.

“He is,” Robb forced a grin, “usually.”

“What has you in such a serious mood today?” she asked.

Robb looked around at the people coming and going through the yard. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the two of them. He considered telling Margaery what was on his mind, but his father had told him in secret, and he felt he should respect that secret.

“It's not something I can speak of here.” He looked at her usually smiling face and felt his heart turn over at the very serious, perhaps even worried, look on her face.

“Would you walk with me in the godswood?”

It was Margaery's turn to hesitate. He knew she did not care much for the godswood, but it was the only place he felt they could discuss the things he was thinking.

Finally, Margaery nodded, giving him a brave smile. “I would love to.”

Robb wondered at how she could sound so sincere when he knew she was lying. He returned her smile with a small smile of his own. “Thank you, my lady.”

They walked together to the godswood, unusually quiet. Most evenings they would walk together and Margaery would tell him stories about what his sisters had done that day, or what her brothers had been like when she was little. In turn, he would tell her about Winterfell and the North, about the plans he and his father discussed to build up the North and prepare for winter. Tonight they were quiet, walking arm in arm through the godswood.

Robb was filled with turmoil and wanted to share his thoughts with Margaery, or someone, but uncertain whether his thoughts could be shared without revealing secrets that weren't his to share.

He steered Margaery to a far corner of the godswood where no one was likely to see them or overhear their conversation. He was not sure he would confide in her, but didn't want anyone to overhear him if he did.

Robb spread his cloak on a moss-covered log and they sat close for warmth.

“What is it?” asked Margaery. “What has your mind so occupied tonight?”

Robb looked at her in the early evening light. She was beautiful. Beautiful and kind and smart. He knew that it could be a good match between them. But after what his father had told him, he wondered if it would be fair to marry her.

“Do you ever wonder if you are not good enough?” Robb started.

“Good enough for what?”

“For anything, for everything. To be Lord of Winterfell, or to marry the most beautiful woman in the world?” Robb reached over and stroked her cheek, turning her face toward his and touching his lips to hers softly, worshipfully.

Margaery let him kiss her for a few seconds, then gently pushed him away. “Robb, why would you think you aren't good enough?”

Robb grinned at her, his normal cheerful self showing through for a moment, “Well, you haven't agreed to marry me yet?”

Margaery laughed, “I didn't know marrying me was a requirement to be Lord of Winterfell.”

“It's not.” Robb felt the light-heartedness fall away. “Nothing is. Nothing but being the first-born son of the current Lord.”

“When did that become a problem?” Margaery asked.

“I was watching Jon with your brothers.”

Margaery shook her head, looking confused.

Robb sighed and stared off into the woods. He couldn't talk about this. Not to Margaery and not to anyone else. It was too personal. He grasped Margaery's hand while he thought about the conversation he had with his father earlier that afternoon.

Arya had followed him and Theon to Wintertown not long ago and told their father about her trip. There had been a number of conversations after that. Talking about honor and about respecting Margaery and protecting her honor. Every few days it was another lecture on how to avoid...

Robb laughed out loud then. Lectures on how to avoid being alone with the wickedly scheming woman from the south. Like he was at that very moment. The woman who was patiently waiting to hear what he thought instead of telling him what he needed to do or say next.

“Do you ever wonder if I'll seduce you one evening when we are alone?” Robb asked her.

Now it was Margaery's turn to laugh. “You? Seduce me? More likely it will be the other way around.”

Robb grinned. She had offered quite a bit more than the few kisses they had shared. And he had turned her down. He was his father's son. He was the son of Eddard Stark. He was honorable.

The more he told himself these things, the less he believed him. There was Jon, after all. His father had not always been honorable. His father had gone south to fight in Robert's Rebellion and then come home with a bastard. Some southern woman had certainly seduced him. Maybe that was why he was so worried about these evening walks with Margaery. He was worried the same thing would happen to Robb.

Except that Robb did not have an older brother who might die and leave him honor-bound to marry his betrothed. Something just didn't make sense.

So he confronted his Lord Father and threw Jon in his face. If something happened between him and Margaery he would marry her and their child would be the true-born heir of Winterfell. He had provoked his father unfairly, Robb knew, but he was tired of being suspected and warned about spending too much time alone with Margaery.

Robb looked at the woman sitting next to him again. She was a lovely jewel against the setting of the godswood, and just sat there patiently waiting for him to tell her what was on his mind. In that moment, Robb could not think of anyone he'd rather confess his troubles to than her.

“Margaery, would you...” he hesitated, “I'd really like you to...”

Robb let go of Margaery and dropped to a knee in front of her. “Will you marry me?” he asked, but then shook his head. “Don't answer that yet. I wanted to ask you right... but there is something else you should know before you answer.”

He rose from his knee and sat back down beside her, looking at her and cursing himself for not examining her face before he promised to share his secret. He wished he knew if she would have said yes before. But maybe he didn't really want to know, if it made a difference to her after all.

“My father,” Robb hesitated again. “Lord Eddard, he told me something today.”

He looked to Margaery again, afraid to go on.

“What was it Robb? What has you so upset?” The kindness of her words nearly brought tears to his eyes.

“He said that I might not be his son.” Robb's voice had dropped to a quiet whisper.

Margaery's eyes grew large as she stared at him. “What do you mean?” she whispered back.

“He said that my... Robb hesitated again. “... my ... Uncle Brandon was wild and careless with women. He didn't value their honor. He told me about scandals, Margaery. Not just a trip to a brothel every now and then, but women who claimed he fathered their bastards, even a few high-born girls that made claims of that sort.”

“But that doesn't have anything to do with you.” Margaery tried to reassure him.

“Oh, but it does.” Robb said with quiet bitterness. “He said that he did not think my mother came to their marriage bed a maiden.”

Margaery gasped, “that's slanderous, why would he say such a thing about his lady wife?”

“To prove a point. He's been worried that I will dishonor you. He wanted me to know the consequences.” Robb stared off into the trees again. The consequences were weighing heavily on him this evening.

“I was born a month early.” It was barely even a whisper.

“Oh, Robb, but that happens sometimes. It doesn't mean anything.”

“It means he has never been sure that I'm his. He thinks I might be his brother's son - that my uncle Brandon might have been my true father.”

“But that doesn't matter. He was the heir to Winterfell, and you would be his heir, before your father even. It doesn't change anything.”

“It changes everything!” Robb hissed as he surged up, hands balled into fists, wanting to hit something. Wishing he has a sword to swing. It was not fair. Why keep a secret for fifteen years, to tell him now that he might be just as much a bastard as his brother Jon. Except it wouldn't be his brother then. It would be his cousin. And Jon would be Eddard Starks real son while he was just a pretender. Jon, who was better than him with a sword, and on a horse, and even with his studies – although he never worked at it the way Robb had. Jon who might have just as much claim, being a bastard, to Winterfell as he did.

That would make Bran the true heir, but he wouldn't inherit what was his because of Robb, because of father's lies, of mother's lies, they all stood in his way. Couldn't she see that?

“Robb,” Margaery was standing beside him then, hands on his back and shoulder.

“If you want to be Lady of Winterfell, maybe you should be spending your evenings with my little brother, Bran.”

Margaery giggled and shook her head. “Oh, Robb, he's a little boy!”

“It should all be his.”

“You don't know that.”

“No. No one knows. I could ask my mother, but it would only hurt her. And she may not even be certain who my father is, if what my father suspects is true. If she did, do you think she would tell me?”

Margaery looked at him seriously. “No. I don't think she would, Robb. She would think you heir to Winterfell either way, I think.”

“Well, she would be wrong. She didn't marry Brandon, and if I'm his, I'm a bastard.”

“She meant to marry him, and he was betrothed to him. If he hadn't died... don't you think that's enough?”

“No.”

Blinking back hot tears of frustration, Robb sighed and turned into Margaery's arms. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He felt the weight of his troubles lift as he stroked her hair.

“I feel like a pretender. I don't know what to do.”

Margaery pulled away from him and took his hand. “You go on just as before. You keep your father's secret. He shouldn't have told you in the first place.You act as if you never heard it.”

“I can't unknow what he said.”

“No, but you can live with it. I've lived with being a pretender all my life. It's not such a hard thing really.”

“You? Did your mother have some secret affair?” Robb teased.

“Not as far as I know.” Margaery gave him one of her sly smiles that hinted at something more than she was saying. “You are familiar with the history of Highgarden, are you not?”

Robb grinned apologetically, “I'm not so good with history below the neck.”

Margaery patted his hand and sat back down on their log, pulling him down beside her. “The Tyrells were stewards to the Gardner Kings.” She began, explaining to him how her family was viewed as being less noble than most of the other great families of the Reach. But they supported the Targayens early and were given Highgarden as a reward.

“Still, we did not intermarry with the Targaryens the way the Hightowers and Florents did. They have old blood and new blood both that make them think they have a better claim to the lands and position that we hold. So, yes, I know what it is to feel like a pretender. And worse to have everyone around you think you are a pretender too. Do you think your father will disinherit you over his suspicions?”

Robb shook his head. “No, he says that if I am Brandon's son, that I would still be heir to Winterfell. And in any case, it is only a suspicion. He was trying to show me why, even if we were betrothed we should not... you know.”

Robb blushed and Margaery grinned with a twinkle in her eye.

“Is that all you had to tell me?” she asked him.

“It is.” Robb felt his chest constrict a little. What would she answer then? She did not get up and storm out as he feared, but she had not said 'yes' either.

Instead she pouted and looked at the ground as she spoke. “You have been honest with me, Robb. And I feel I should be just as honest with you.”

He nodded, and waited for her to say more.

“When my family sent me here to meet you, they knew about the King's visit. They wanted me to meet the royal family as well.”

Robb pulled away from her, “No, not you too...”

“Robb, they are very aware that we have no ties with royalty, and they see the Baratheons as a chance to change that.” Margaery was practically pleading with him.

“You are just like all the other girls, just like Sansa, all you care about are your stupid princes and being queen someday.” He was pacing back and forth in front of her with his fists clenching and unclenching.

“Robb, please...” Margaery begged. “Sit down and listen to what I am trying to tell you.”

“No. I don't want to sit down. I don't want you to touch me and pretend that you care. Say what you have to say and let us be done with it.” He was seething inside. She was a pretender, and a lying scheming... everything his parents had been worried about.


	20. Winterfell (Margaery)

Margaery felt the rage building up in herself as she watched Robb pace. She had listened to his problems without comment and now he was judging her. Comparing her to Sansa and saying she was just another girl.

Margaery flew at him then, “How dare you,” she yelled. “How dare _you_ , judge _me_.” Placing a palm on his chest and pushing him, stepping in closer as he backed away, tripping on a gnarled root and almost losing his balance.

She glared at him, ragged breaths hissing in and out between her teeth. “You are right. I am just a stupid girl. I actually thought I could trust you.” She grabbed at the nearest thing she could reach and threw a pathetic bunch of pine needles in Robb's face. He blocked them with his hands and started to speak, but she cut him off. “I can't believe how stupid I am.”

And then she spun on her heels and stomped off through the godswood, leaving Robb staring after her with his jaw hanging open.

She stormed through the courtyard, eyes blazing.

“What's wrong little sister, Robb refuse your charms again?” Loras called out as she passed through the training yard.

“Shut up!” She glared at him and walked past without slowing down, leaving Loras to exchange an amused look with Garlan.

She didn't slow down until she reached her room. She slammed the door and barred it and then threw herself on the bed and sobbed into her pillow. How could she be so stupid, even for a minute, to think of Robb as a friend? Someone that she let her guard down and share her actual thoughts instead of some pre-planned story to make him like her?

If she was stupid, so was he. He was just a stupid boy and didn't even know that she...

Margaery suddenly stopped sobbing and put the pillow down.

No. She wasn't even going to think it. Love had nothing to do with it. Shouldn't have anything to do with it. She was better than that. Her grandmother always said how good she was at this game. And love had nothing to do with the game. It would only get in the way.

It was the Imp's fault for putting those ideas in her head anyway. And he was wrong. Robb obviously was not the kind of man who would listen to his lady wife. He was a raging idiot. A wild bull ready to crash through the market just because of some ancient family secret that wouldn't change anything even if it was true and everyone knew it.

She sat up and dried her eyes. She was better than this. She was here to get King Robert to fall in love with her and what Robb Stark thought didn't matter anyway. At least she wouldn't have to worry about him proposing to her again.

She crossed the room to the wash basin and splashed the ice cold water on her face, determined to ignore the heavy pain in her chest. The Imp had been right about Robb, but she was too stubborn to see it. Now it was too late.

There was a knock at the door. _Robb!_

Margeary pinched her cheeks and smiled at her reflection before she opened the door. Her smile faded.

“Loras?”

“I was afraid you would be late for dinner.”

“I'm not coming to dinner. Have one of the servants bring something for me here.” Margaery turned away, pushing the door closed. Loras caught the door and pushed his way into the room.

“Pouting doesn't become you. What kind of game are you playing?”

“I'm not playing.” Margaery sat down near the window. “I'm not feeling well. Just have something light sent up for me. Give my apologies to our hosts.”

“No. I don't know what happened between you and Robb, but you better get yourself to the dining hall and make nice. The King won't be here for a month, Margaery, if you don't at least pretend to like the Stark boy, how do you think you will get a chance to meet him? And he's left Cersei in King's Landing. He'll be more than ready to meet you by the time he gets here...unless we aren't here because you have already rejected Robb Stark and run back to Highgarden.”

“I'm not _'rejecting'_ Robb.” He may be rejecting her though. To think she almost told him everything they had planned. At least he only thought she was shallow and awed by the thought of the Prince Regent like his little sister. She might be able to make him forget that idea. But not until she got a grip on her emotions, tonight was not the time to deal with this situation.

Loras laughed. “He sure looked rejected when he came back from wherever the two of you were hiding. What did he do? Did he finally try to make an advance on you? Did you turn him down and break his heart?”

“Loras, leave it be. I'll make things right with Robb on the morrow. Tonight I need some quiet time to think.”

“Well, you better think fast. I thought you were better than this.” Loras turned to leave, then turned back. “I had a message from King's Landing.”

“Renly?” Margaery tried to look interested, but her heart was not in it.

“Cersei wants to give Storm's End back to Stannis. Renly heard it from Varys.”

“I'm sorry, Loras, but you shouldn't worry about Renly. I'm sure she can't do that without the King's permission.”

Loras gave her a bitter chuckle. “I don't know what she can do. He said she asked the small council to approve a betrothal for Joffery as well.”

“For Joffery? To whom?” Maybe this would help her convince Robb she was not interested in Joffery after all. Or that she had lost interest. Not that any man would want to be second choice, but she could pretend that it was a great relief that Joffery was betrothed to someone else and it was only her family who wanted the marriage, never herself. She hadn't actually mentioned anything about King Robert before Robb stopped listening and started shouting.

“Well?” She prompted Loras.

“Princess Myrcella....” he leaned in as he whispered it.

“Who does she think they are, Targayens?” Margaery was shocked. Like Storm's End though, Cersei would have to get King Robert to agree or it would never happen.

“Apparently, Stannis had to be physically restrained when she made the suggestion. Renly said he was afraid his brother might keel over dead just from the shock of it. Even that worm, Pycelle, said ' _it would not be wise_.'”

“So nothing really has changed?” Margaery felt that the court gossip was less intriguing than usual.

“Don't you see? She's alone down there with no one to keep her in check. Between Varys and Littlefinger I doubt there will be any need for King Robert to set her aside after all. She will destroy herself before he gets back to King's Landing. You only need to be there and be your sweet charming self when it happens. So dry those tears and make nice to Robb.”

“Tomorrow.” Margaery promised. “Tonight I will eat in my room.”

Margaery sat by the window thinking about Sansa Stark. The girl had such wildly romantic ideas. She wondered what Sansa would think about the prince being betrothed, and to his own sister? Margaery gave her head a shake. it wasn't likely to happen so there was no point in thinking about it.

The marriage Sansa's parents had arranged seemed perfect for her. Trystane Martell was supposed to be handsome and courtly, with his uncle's dark looks and his father's patient temperament.

Sansa would be at the heart of the royal family in Dorne, participating in every feast, every tourney, but with little of the actual responsibility for ruling. She would have clothes and jewels, and, of course, there were the lemon cakes. Sansa loved lemon cakes and Dorne was full of lemons.

But Sansa was not happy with the future her parents arranged for her. She had the perfect marriage to look forward to, but all she could think about was being Joffery's queen someday. All she seemed to think about was clothes and jewels, music and dancing. She worried how she would look and what people would think about how she looked.

Margaery shook her head again. There was so much more to being a queen than that. She never once heard Sansa talk about taking care of the people. Nor did she seem to have any idea how to win someone over to her way of thinking.

Not to mention that everyone agreed that Joffery was a little shit. No, she should be happy with what she had, not moping around wishing for something else. Margaery was just beginning to suspect that there was something she had in common with Sansa when another knock on the door startled her. It was Elinor with a tray of food.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Elinor asked as she arranged the food on the table for Margaery. “Do you want company?”

“No. Thank you, Elinor. I want to be alone this evening.”

After the other girl left, Margaery picked at her food and turned her thoughts to King Robert and her mission to transform herself into the image of Lyanna. Everyone said that she could find out about Lyanna once she got to Winterfell. They seemed to assume people would actually be willing to talk about a girl that died so long ago. Instead, she found that her name was barely mentioned and even the servants seemed afraid to talk about her.

Sansa had given her more help than anyone. And all she had said was that Lyanna had been wild and might have carried a sword. _Wild like Arya..._

Margaery crawled into bed thinking about Arya and wondering exactly how much like her aunt she really was.

Margaery dreamed that she was at a tourney. Her brothers were there, and Jon Snow was sitting next to her, calling her sister. Loras rode against a silver-haired knight and was thrown to the ground, the horse falling on top of him, crushing his leg. 

_No, not Loras too_ , she thought, jumping to her feet with the rest of the crowd. The silver-haired knight rode toward the stands were Cersei Lannister sat shining like a star, more beautiful than anyone else at the tourney. But the knight passed her by and turned toward Margaery. As he did, his hair turned black and his girth expanded until it matched his height. 

When he reached the place where Margaery was standing next to Jon he had transformed into King Robert. He laid his golden crown at her feet. In the distance she could see Robb struggling between her Grandmother and the Queen's brother – the Kingslayer. He was trying to stop the King, but he couldn't reach him. 

Margaery woke in the darkness gasping for breath, wishing she had not sent Elinor away earlier. It took a long time to get back to sleep, and in the morning she felt exhausted, and her sheets were a tangled mess. She wondered what nightmares she did not remember.

Margaery started her day with a grim determination. She had a mission here, and she was going to accomplish it. She sat with Sansa during their needlework session and encouraged her to talk about all her favorite stories and didn't even try to keep her from daydreaming aloud about Prince Joffery insisting that her betrothal be set aside so that Sansa could marry him and give him a dozen golden-haired children.

In the afternoon she sought out Arya and asked her to join her for some target practice in the yard. They took up their bows and arrows to the amusement of the men and boys. But once they started shooting Theon Greyjoy insisted on joining them and then her brothers and Jon Snow as well.

Robb only watched, still brooding, until his two younger brothers showed up and pulled him away.

Margaery missed her shot when Robb walked off, and Greyjoy made some remark about women being unfit to wield a bow. That was when Arya hit him over the head with her bow and the master-at-arms put an end to their official practice. Margaery pulled Loras aside and told him that Lyanna had been a swordswoman and that she and Arya would require his assistance to train with swords, in the godswood later.

At dinner Margaery sat next to Robb and tried to pretend nothing was wrong. She felt stiff and unnatural. Usually she could pretend to be friendly toward anyone, but she seemed to have lost her touch with Robb sitting next to her.

The only one who was more awkward than Margaery was Robb when he tried to reply to her polite inquiries in kind. She had promised Loras to make things right between her and Robb, but she didn't know how. It had been his fault, after all. He was the one who threw a tantrum when she had only been trying to tell him how she felt.

After dinner, Margaery found herself drawn to the crypts again. She wandered to the end of the row and sat next to Lyanna's statue.

“I dont' know what to do.” She confided to the dead girl. “I think I love Robb, but I'm not supposed to fall in love. I'm supposed to get King Robert to fall in love with me.” 

“You knew him before he was king. You were supposed to marry him too.”

“They tell me to try to be like you when he gets here, but you must not have liked him very much if you ran off with someone else. Even though your family wanted...”

Margaery thought about what she had just said. Lyanna never wanted to marry Robert. She didn't do what her family expected her to. She ran off with someone that she loved. Someone who was already married. It was a hopeless romance. What could have come of that relationship? It's not like she would be queen, she would have been his whore, his mistress, but never had any real position or power. She gave up being the Lady of Storm's End for... nothing.

Margaery sighed. It was at least as romantic as any of the stories Sansa had told her that morning. Romantic, and stupid. 

Her grandmother would disapprove. They called her grandmother the “Queen of Thorns” because she disapproved of nearly everything. Her grandmother wouldn't be sitting in a dark crypt talking to a dead girl about the boy she was not supposed to fall in love with.

Or would she? She was always saying how she almost married a Targaryen. Margaery turned her thoughts to her grandmother then. She did exactly what she wanted, how she wanted, and when she wanted. She had married her “oaf” from Highgarden instead of the silver-haired prince her family must have wanted her to marry. 

Would she understand if Margaery turned down the King and the Prince to marry a mere Lord instead? Would she be disappointed? 

Margaery was so deep in thought that she did not notice when Grey Wind padded up to her and lay his head in her lap. She stroked his fur absent-mindedly and continued sharing her thoughts with Lyanna's image.

“I think she would understand.” Margaery whispered to Lyanna. “She would have to understand, she did the same thing. You did the same thing. They tell me to act like you, but expect me to pretend to fall in love with the King. I don't think you'd pretend to love someone you had no feelings for.” 

Margaery sighed, “But it's too late now. He hates me. Doesn't he boy?”

Grey Wind licked Margaery's face, and she wondered how long he had been there with her.

“I don't hate you.” Robb's moved closer and sat on the other side of Grey Wind. “I only hoped that you would accept my proposal. I was disappointed when you said you only came to Winterfell to meet Prince Joffery.”

“I never said that, Robb, I said my family wanted me to meet him too, so that I could choose between the two of you.”

“And what do you want?” he asked.

“I don't know, Robb. I care for you, but I feel like I have a duty to my family as well.”

“If it helps any, I've heard that Joffery is horrible.” Robb offered.

Margaery laughed quietly. “Tyrion has told me stories, Robb. He's worse than horrible. I could never love him.”

“Then why would you consider marrying him?”

“Because he will be the King one day. Because I could do more good as the Queen than as Lady of Winterfell. Because someone has to keep him from becoming the next Mad King and that's exactly the kind of thing I've been raised for. You don't need my help the way he does. You could never be a mad king.”

“Are you sure, after my behavior in the godswood yesterday?” Margaery could almost feel Robb blushing.

“Quite sure.” Margaery reached out and placed her hand on top of Robb's. “I trusted you. I don't think I would ever trust Joffery like that.”

“But do you still trust me?”

Margaery withrew her hand and looked away. The silence between the two lingered as she thought about how to answer him.

“I do. I do trust you Robb. I think I may be wrong to trust you, but I do anyway.”

“You aren't wrong. I care for you Margaery. If you want to marry Joffery, I'll even help you... well, I don't know what I could do. But I won't stand in your way.” Robb promised.

Margaery smiled and reached for his hand again. “Thank you, Robb. That means more to me than I can say. But first I need to figure out what I want. What would you do Robb?”

“Well, I wouldn't marry Joffery!” Robb snorted.

“But you would make such a lovely couple,” Margaery teased. “Your sister would never forgive you though.”

Robb shook his head, trying to stop the laugher that bubbled up inside him. “I don't suppose she would,” he finally managed.

“Why don't we go walk in the glass gardens, my lady.” Robb offered, starting to get up.

“Not yet, Robb.” Margaery pulled him back down. Grey Wind got up and started sniffing around the crypts, allowing Robb to move closer and put his arm around Margaery. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, appreciating his strength. 

“It's not about Joffery.” She offered, testing the waters.

“What isn't?” Robb asked, sounding confused.

“They think that I could marry King Robert.”

“He's already got a wife, hadn't you heard?” Robb teased, still sounding a little confused.

“He does. But they say he doesn't love her. They say he doesn't even like her. My brother, Loras.” Margaery paused a little to collect her thoughts before continuing. 

“Loras squired for Robert's brother Renly. They think that I resemble your aunt Lyanna enough that King Robert might set his wife aside and marry me instead.”

She could feel Robb stiffen next to her as he made sense of her words. 

“That sounds,” he paused, apparently searching for words, “like a very dangerous game to play. You might be better off with Prince Turd.”

Margaery's body shook with suppressed laughter and Robb pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her. She felt safe in his arms, and comfortable. She felt like she could talk to him about anything. She relaxed against him. She couldn't even be as free around Loras these days. She had once, but not since he and Renly came up with this plan to marry her to the King.

Robb started to speak in a low voice. Margaery could feel the vibrations in his chest and felt a deep relaxation at the tenor of his voice. “Septon Chayle likes to tell a story about starfish. There was a man who would walk along the beach after the tide went out and pick up the stranded starfish one by one and toss them back into the ocean. Someone, I forget who, maybe it was your brother...” Robb paused to rub her back a little, and plant a kiss in her hair. “Anyway, someone said he was wasting his time, that he couldn't save them all, so it didn't really make a difference. But the man replies that is makes a lot of difference to the starfish that he saves.”

“I've heard that story, too.” Margaery mumbled to Robb's chest. 

“Well, I think that is your problem. You could make a lot of difference to me, to the North, but you are worried about saving every body. Do you even think that's possible?”

“I don't know. I hadn't thought of it that way.”

“You should. If you spend all your time trying to keep Joffery... or Robert from misbehaving, you wouldn't really have that much left over to help anyone else.” Robb shifted his position a little and drew her face toward his. “I promise I would behave on my own so you would have plenty of time to help our people.” And then he kissed her, slow and deep.

Margaery pulled his hand toward her breast. Instead of pulling away like he had before, he let his hand rest where she put it. Margaery closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his warmth seeping through her dress.

Robb pulled away and placed his forehead against hers, leaving his hand where it was, slowly tracing the outline of her curves and sending a tingling sensation to Margaery's core. “Oh, Robb,” she breathed.

“Would you marry me then?” He asked again.

Anything to keep him from pulling away from her. “I would.”

“Even if I decided to leave Winterfell to Bran and wander the Free Cities as a sellsword?” Robb asked, sounding a little amused.

Margaery stiffened a little then. “You wouldn't.” 

“I might.” Robb replied with some seriousness. “If I did...” 

“I don't know. That's asking a lot, Robb. Why don't you kiss me again while I think it over.”

 


	21. Barrowlands (Jaime)

Myrcella was already up and dressed when Jaime came to get Joffery. 

Joffery was still abed. 

“Tell him I'm ill. I think I have a fever.” Joffery mumbled petulantly.

“Your father is the King and he commands your presence. I will not tell him you are ill, you must get up and and get dressed and go tell him yourself.”

Myrcella had her nose in a book, ignoring Joffery as best she could. She would be as smart as Tyrion if Joffery continued to make excuses not to ride with his father. If she was really reading, Jaime was never sure that she wasn't just turning pages while watching her brother misbehave. 

Once Joffery was out of the way, Myrcella put the book down, smiled, and greeted her uncle. She had taken to spending the mornings riding with him. She loved the land and it's people. Every day was a new adventure for her, and Jaime loved watching as she discovered new plants and animals. She took an interest in the local customs and stories about the territory they were passing through. 

“Where are we riding today?” Myrcella asked.

“We are officially entering the Barrowlands today, and putting the neck behind us.” Jaime answered.

“Are there lizard-lions in the Barrowlands too?” asked a sleepy voice.

“Good morning, little Prince,” Jaime greeted his nephew. “I'm afraid we are past the lizard-lions for now. Perhaps you will catch sight of one on the way back to King's Landing.”

Tommen rode with his father every other afternoon. He had been excited about the idea of lizard-lions. King Robert had suggested that Tyrion might take one as his personal sigil, as a kind of mal-formed lion. He had laughed so hard he nearly fell off his horse. Tommen, sweet boy that he was, only looked puzzled. He didn't consider his favorite uncle to be deformed. Jaime had only clenched his teeth and endured the moment. That was the one trait every king's guard needed most – the ability to endure whatever slights or insults that the King chose to dish out. If he had known that when he was fifteen, he might have married Lysa Tully instead of letting Cersei persuade him to join the kingsguard.

“What are the Borrowlands like?” asked Myrcella. 

“Come and see.” replied Jaime. He was never certain if she was asking him or testing him, considering all the times he's seen her with her nose in a book.

Myrcella glanced at Tommen quickly, then suggested. “You could tell me what to expect. How else will I know if I'm dressed appropriately?”

Jamie grinned. He could take both of them riding, but Tommen did not like to ask, and in truth, he was not a very good rider. Jaime didn't feel it was his place to invite the boy, and so he spent most of his time in the wheelhouse.

“The Barrowlands will be the richest farmland in the North. It's not all boggy like the neck, but not so arid as the mountains or as cold as it will be further north. There are small hills, or mounds, that are rumored to be the tombs of the ancient kings of the First Men.”

“Will there be ghosts?” whispered Tommen, eyes wide as he pulled his blankets up to his chin.

Jaime laughed, “there may be.”

“Don't scare him, Uncle Jaime.” Myrcella commanded. “There are no such things as ghosts, Tommen. Uncle Jaime is just teasing you.”

Myrcella turned to Jaime, “Do you think it will be very cold this morning?”

“Not too bad this morning, a light cloak should suffice.”

Myrcella dug through a trunk and pulled out a lightweight cloak of dark red with a golden lion's head clasp. Undoubtedly a gift from her mother. The woman hated for him to speak to the children for fear of rumors about their paternity, and then gifted them with a wardrobe full of clothing in Lannister colors. He shook his head and held out a hand for his niece.

“You look lovely.”

Myrcella smiled at the compliment, accepting it as her due. She was quiet and that led some people to think she was shy or timid, perhaps filled with self-doubt. King Robert seemed to think of her that way, and Cersei too. But from what Jaime could see there was simply a quiet confidence about Myrcella. She seemed to know exactly who and what she was and did not need to pretend to be either more, or less, unlike her brothers.

South of the neck, Jaime had told Myrcella stories about his time as a squire fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood and other places that he had been personally. As they crossed the neck into the North, Myrcella took over the storytelling.

“Did you know that some maesters say the corpse queen was really a Dustin?”

Jaime smiled, “Really? Are you sure she wasn't a Stark?” he joked.

“No.” Myrcella scoffed. “None of the stories say she was a Stark. The best ones say she was one of the Others. The Night's King, who was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at the time may have been a Stark. They erased his name though, so I guess we will never know.” 

Jaime watched her out of the corner of his eye. She seemed sad. Tyrion would have been sad because the details were missing, but Jaime suspected that for Myrcella it was the tragedy of the story itself that wiped the smile from her face. 

Thinking he could cheer her up with a distraction, Jaime pointed to a large hill on the horizon. “Can you see that? That is Barrowtown. The hill behind it is actually a tomb.” 

If he thought he could impress her with his knowledge, he was wrong.

“I know. It is the tomb of the First King. He was the king that brought the First Men to Westeros. They say that his tomb is cursed.”

“Really, does that mean all the Dustin's in Barrowtown are cursed?”

“No, silly.” Myrcella rolled her eyes at him, but she was grinning a little now. “The curse is on anyone that tries to set themselves up to be greater than the First King. If they do, then they will grow old and corpse-like. That is why they think that the corpse queen was a Dustin.”

“Hmm...” Jaime considered it for a moment, “what about the Targayens then?”

“I don't know. Maybe that's why the Mad King was the way he was?” Myrcella guessed. 

“There were plenty of Targaryens before him that were not so monstrous, either in actions or appearance. I do not think I can believe in your curse.”

“It's not my curse, it's the curse of the First King.” Myrcella clarified. “But if the curse is not valid, then the corpse queen must have been one of the others.”

As they drew closer to Barrowtown, they saw a rider approaching from the West. Jaime pointed and he and Myrcella headed to intercept him. If she had been a boy, Jaime would have been tempted to ask for her to be his squire. She was followed directions better than most boys and even better than some of the men he had under his command.

When the rider was close, Jaime signaled Myrcella to fall behind. She did.

“Greetings, friend.”Jaime called out. 

“Greetings, m'Lord,” came the reply. “Are you with the King's party?”

“We are,” Jaime confirmed. “And you?”

“Lady Dustin sent me, m'Lord. I've messages for the King, from King's Landing.”

“Well, the King is with the main column, a league or two that way.” Jaime said, pointing roughly east-north-east. 

“You look tired. I can deliver the messages for you if you like.” Jaime offered in an off-hand manner.

“You'd see them in the King's own hand?” asked the messenger.

“On my honor as a knight.” Jaime promised.

With that the messenger handed over a small sack full of raven's scrolls. Jaime resisted the urge to look at them right away. He had not heard a word from Cersei since he left her in bed the morning they departed. There was not likely to be anything now either.

Once the messenger was out of sight Myrcella asked, “Are we going to look at them?”

“They are messages for the King.” Jaime reminded her.

“I know, but you read his messages last time.” Myrcella pulled her horse up alongside his. “Do you think there is one from Mother?”

Jaime shook his head. She had noticed that? Noticed and never said a word to him or anyone else. He sighed, “Robert doesn't like to be bothered with unimportant reports.”

“I know. Ser Barristan does the same.” Myrcella nodded.

_Ser Barristan, too?_ Jaime chuckled. Myrcella rode with him on the afternoons she was not with her father. “Well, then, let's see who wants the king's ear today, shall we?”

They found a quiet spot and tethered their horses. Jaime spread a blanket on the ground and they sat down to look at the messages. Most were from Varys, but there was also one from Renly and one from Stannis. Still not a word from Cersei. Looking at Myrcella's downturned face he thought she could at least write something to the children. He was sure the Septa had them writing short notes to Cersei.

He started with the letters from Robert's brothers. Both were complaining that Cersei was talking about returning Strom's End to Stannis, although the tone was quite a bit different between the two. Varys sent word about the little Targaryen princess being betrothed to a Dothraki horselord. Jaime glanced up at Myrcella and tried to imagine her being given to a savage. 

“What is it?” She asked curiously. 

“Nothing, just a young noble woman getting betrothed. I don't suppose that King Robert wants to know about that.” Jaime set the message aside.

The next was a shock. Cersei had proposed that Joffery be betrothed to Myrcella in a small council meeting. The entire council, even Grand Maester Pycelle, who usually followed Cersei's lead, had refused to consider the arrangement. 

He shook his head in disgust. He should have tied her up and brought her with them. It was a stupid idea to begin with, but to propose it to the small council? What was she doing?

“And?” Myrcella asked eagerly.

“Betrothals,” Jaime gestured at the discarded message, “and rumors of betrothals. Varys is always full of gossip.”

He placed the message in the discard pile. Robert would not hear of Cersei's madness from him, at least not all of it. The plot about Storm's End should keep him raging until the next batch of messages came in. He only hoped that Ser Barristan could be a judicious if he happened to be the one to intercept them.

When they rejoined the column, Jaime left Myrcella with Ser Barristan and went to find Robert and Joffery. 

“Finally,” roared the King, “what took you so long?”

“We ran into a rider from Barrowtown. There are more messages from King's Landing.” 

Jamie held out the small pile of messages.

“What do they want? Can't they manage to rule the kingdoms by themselves for a few weeks?”

“It seems your wife wants to restore Storm's End to Stannis.” Jaime offered along with the stack of messages. 

The King snorted, “Why would she do that?”

“I don't know, your grace. Perhaps if you read the messages from your brothers.”

“Both of them?” Robert reached for the messages then. He leafed through them, scanning them and then tossing them into the fire. “Stannis wants to know if this was my idea, to have him be 'castllan of Dragonstone until Joffery comes of age.'”

“Why would he think that? Did I ever say that? What would Joffery want with Dragonstone?” Robert turned to Joffery, “Do you want to be Lord of Dragonstone?”

Joffery wrinkled his nose, “That pile of rock Uncle Stannis calls home, no, why would I want that? Has he forgotten that I'm going to be king?”

“Hmpf,” the King snorted again. “Renly wants to know what my plans are for him if he is not to be Lord of Storm's End. Neither of them mentioned Cersei...”

“There's another one from Varys, your Grace.” Jaime pointed out.

Robert shoved the remaining messages back at Jaime, disgusted. “Let them fight it out between themselves for now. Burn these. And take my son. He still sits a horse like a bag of turnips. I thought you were going to teach him to ride.”

“I am working on it.”

Jaime turned attempting to put the messages King Robert returned to him with those that he had removed earlier, but the message bag was missing. He put them in the pocket where the other messages should have been and motioned Joffery to follow him. “We need to find your sister and Ser Barristan.”

“Why? She isn't important. You are supposed to be training me.”

Jaime held his tongue. Surely Cersei could see what he was? Didn't she want more than that for Myrcella, or did she only hope to see two of her children sharing the throne? He would give up everything for her, run away to the free cities and never look back. But she wanted so much to be queen. Enough to spread her legs for Robert. He would hate her if he didn't love her so much.

At least, he felt certain that the idea would never bear fruit. Robert wouldn't permit it and for once his small council agreed about something.

“Myrcella, did you see...” 

“Did you drop something?” she asked sweetly, holding up the bag he had been looking for.

“Apparently I did,” he said, searching her face as he reached for the bag. She did not appear at all upset or distressed. And there had barely been any time, with Ser Barristan there. No, if she had read that message he would see it in her eyes, but all he saw was the same calm that she held every other day.

Jaime removed the messages from the bag and tossed them into the nearest cook fire, along with the ones in his pocket. 

Then, turning to Joffery, “If you can disarm me before lunch I'll let you ride in the wheelhouse for the rest of the afternoon, your Grace.”

“But I'm hungry.” Whined Joffery.

“That's the best time to fight,” insisted Jaime. “The hunger will motivate you.”

Jaime repeatedly showed Joffery a move and then asked him to repeat it. Joffery made one half-hearted attempt after another, complaining of hunger the whole time. 

“Concentrate,” Jamie insisted. “it goes like this.” Jaime easily disarmed Joffery with a move that swept his sword up and away from his body, forcing the wrist to twist in an uncomfortable way. Joffery dropped his sword every time Jaime demonstrated, but did not seem to be able to follow the mechanics of the move. Instead, he would lunge and slash at Jaime. When he finally got the move close to correct, Jaime allowed himself to be disarmed.

“Look how old and useless you are getting,” Joffery sneered. “Maybe we should find someone else to guard the king. My hound might do, he would never be so easy to disarm.”

“I'm sure you are right, your Grace.” Undoubtedly, the hound would eat Joffery for lunch. But instead of saying anything, he only let his charge to order a servant to bring his food to the wheelhouse.

Jaime left him to pick up Tommen before Joffery got back to the wheelhouse. The boy was ready and waiting, eager for a day with his father. 

“Do you think there are ghosts?” he asked King Robert as they set off. 

The King roared with laughter. “That's what we have the kingsguard for, boy, to protect us from the ghosts and grumpkins!”   


 


	22. Winterfell (Jon)

Jon sat on a large stone next to Tyrion Lannister brooding while watching Loras Tyrell with his arms around Sansa. The girl was hopeless with a sword. She kept leaning back into Loras and losing her balance. She would blush and apologize and they would start again. Loras was patient if nothing else.

“Do you think she likes him?” Tyrion asked, sneaking a drink of wine from a flask he kept concealed in his cloak.

“Do crows fly?” Jon snorted, shaking his head. The secret lessons had been more interesting before Sansa had joined them, and now Jon was sure their parents would discover them at any moment, which is why he chose to sit out this session. Even if Sansa didn't tell anyone, then surely Lady Stark would notice all her children were missing. Everyone but Rickon was in the godswood for the 'secret' sword play lessons.

Loras had been teaching Arya how to swing a sword at his sister's insistence. Margaery Tyrell had decided that she and Arya should know how to fight. So far, Margaery was holding her own against Arya, but only because, being a few years older, she could lift the sword a bit easier. Arya was learning fast, and developing some muscle in those skinny arms, it wouldn't be long before she managed to disarm the Tyrell girl. She had already disarmed Bran three times.

At least, that was how things were going before Sansa decided to join them. Now they were all waiting for Sansa to quit flirting with Loras and give one of the other girls a turn. Margaery was holding hands with Robb and watching Sansa with a smirk on her face. Arya was practicing her moves on a large bush a short distance away from the rest of the group, and Bran was nursing his latest bruise.

Jon heard a twig snap and then felt a sharp pain across the back of his head. Turning he caught Arya around the waist and pulled her wooden sword out of her hand.

“What was that for?” he demanded.

“You shouldn't be sitting here just watching, teach me something!” Arya replied, trying to wrestle the practice sword out of Jon's hand.

“Not today, little sister, your mother is bound to notice Sansa is missing and come looking for her.”

“Not in the Godswood, stupid, mother doesn't like the godswood. Now, give me my sword back.” Arya tugged at the sword again, but Nymeria suddenly jumped up and knocked Arya away from Jon.

Jon saw Bran's wolf perk up as Lady and Grey Wind suddenly looked alert toward the direction of the godswood entrance. He felt a pang of longing for Ghost. His direwolf had disappeared in the wolfswood a couple of days ago and no one had seen him since. Jon was worried, but his father only told him that direwolves were wild creatures and if it suited him he would come back, but not to be surprised if he wolf had decided to live in the wild as the gods intended.

Just a few moments later, Lord Stark approached the party.

“Sansa?” he asked in a surprised voice.

“Loras was giving Arya lessons...” Sansa started to say, blushing deeply as she stepped away from Loras, the sword point dipping sharply toward the ground as she lost his support to hold it up. Loras glanced at his sister.

“Arya is not the one with a sword in her hands,” his father's voice held an edge of anger in it that made Jon wish he had run the moment the direwolves started acting strange. He quickly hid Arya's sword behind his back.

Arya was wresting with Nymeria and had a strange smile on her face as she watched her older sister take the blame for the day's mischief.

“It was my idea.” Margaery stepped forward, dropping Robb's hand.

Confusion was winning the war with anger on his father's face. “What idea?”

“I wanted to learn to use a sword.” Margaery volunteered, not mentioning either Arya or Sansa. “Maester Luwin said it's not uncommon for Northern women to take up arms and fight beside their men.”

“There is a yard for training.” Lord Stark pointed out. “The godswood is not a place for this kind of thing. I think we should all return to the keep now.”

A hand reached out to Jon, “and were you training as well?” his father asked, reaching for the sword Jon still held behind his back.

“That's my sword.” Arya spoke up. “Jon just took it away from me.”

His father gave him a long look, probably trying to discern the truth of Arya's claim. After a few moments, Lord Stark dropped his gaze and gave Arya a very similar look, then glanced at Tryion too.

“The three of you head back to the keep.” he ordered, nodding at Tyrion. “Try to keep my children from getting into any mischief along the way.”

Tyrion returned his nod and started walking away, “come along, children.”

“I'm not a child!” Arya muttered following with her head down and her hand on Nymeria's neck.

Jon trailed behind them, hoping to catch a word or two of what was likely to be a severe scolding for his other siblings. Any words were lost in the rustle of bushes as Bran and his wolf ran to catch up to Jon.

“Do you think he's very mad?” Bran asked.

Jon sighed, “No, not very mad, just mad enough.” He looked back at the group that had tightened to a small circle and saw Sansa smiling as Loras offered her his arm to leave as well. It looked like Robb would end up bearing the brunt of his father's displeasure this time.

Arya glanced back and saw Sansa blushing on Loras' arm. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, looking a little disappointed that her sister got off so lightly.

“It should have been you...” Jon whispered to her.

“Why? It wasn't my idea. It was Margaery's!

“And you tried to talk her out of it?” Jon asked.

This time it was Arya who blushed, but she only asked, “Can I have my sword back?”

“What for?” Jon asked.

“Father just told us to practice in the training yard. Do you want to spar, Bran?”

The two ran off leaving Jon to walk with Tyrion.

“Aren't you supposed to keep her out of mischief?” he asked the dwarf.

“I pick my battles, Snow. And, technically, your father did say they should train in the yard.”

Jon shook his head, it was all chaos since Winterfell had so many guests. He lengthened his stride, out-pacing Tyrion, wishing that he was out in the wolfswood with Ghost rather than here. If Lady Stark got upset with Arya for skipping her needlework, he wondered what she was going to think about Sansa learning to swing a sword?

On the way back to the keep, Jon passed the kennels where his brothers and sisters usually secured their wolves for the night. Jon cursed himself for not keeping his wolf chained up like they did.

That night he tossed and turned, worried about whether Ghost would find his way home. When he finally closed his eyes, he found himself in the woods with the sound of hounds baying and the smell of fear on the air. He crouched in the bushes as a young girl ran past, obviously the source of the smell, her clothes were torn and she bled from multiple wounds. _Prey_ , a voice in his head said.

The hounds were coming closer. He looked after the girl. She was weak. She was injured. It would not be long before the hounds caught her, but he was twice the size of any hound.

He prowled out of the bushes toward the girl. She tripped and fell, frozen with fear as the direwolf approached her. He licked her face, tasting the salt of her tears and the blood on her lips.

Then he turned and bounded toward the sound of the hounds. He growled a warning and then he was on them, teeth and claws. He bit at legs and necks and drew blood. They tried to fight back, but he was quicker, turning before they could get their teeth into him.

He found the leader of the pack and grabbed him, neck firmly between his teeth and shook until the hound's neck broke. The other hounds broke and ran, back toward the sound of loud shouts and the metal clinking of men.

He growled a warning and followed the hounds at a distance. The leader of the man-pack was angry. He was attacking the hounds and the other men. He left two of the men and one of the hounds bleeding their lives into the forest floor.

He sniffed at the dying men. There was a mark on their clothing. _Bolton_ , thought the wolf.

Jon woke with a start. He had dreamed he was Ghost. He got up and added some wood to his fire. Did he dream because he was worried for Ghost, or was the dream telling him Ghost was alright? Jon could not decide.

Jon was up early, checking with the guards to see if there had been any sign of Ghost during the night. No one had anything of interest to report, and Jon found himself in the training yard with a practice sword and a training dummy.

“Is he dead yet?”

Jon turned to see Robb as he entered the yard. “You are up early, Stark.”

Robb frowned, “Don't call me that.”

“That's your name, what else would I call you?” Robb had been acting strange for the last week or two. He seemed suddenly moody and even sullen at times.

“I'm your brother, by the gods, call me Robb. I'm not your Lord.”

Jon just shook his head, “Fine, Robb, why are you up so early?” Jon emphasized Robb's name.

“Why are you?”

“I dreamed about Ghost. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I came down here to practice.”

“He's still missing?”

“Do you see him?”

“He'll come back.” Robb said, trying too hard to sound confident.

“You still haven't said why you are up so early.” Jon reminded him. “Was father upset about the swords?”

“He wasn't pleased. He had a long talk with me and Margaery.” Robb seemed even more withdrawn than usual.

Jon put his sword away and leaned up against the railing near Robb. “What did he have to say?”

“It's not what he said that I'm worried about, it's what Margaery told him.”

“That she wants to learn to fight with a sword? I think she was just trying to impress you.” Jon guessed.

“No. Not me. She knows I like her the way she is.” Robb was quiet and looked off into the distance then.

“Then what is bothering you, Stark?”

“I said...”

“Sorry, but come on Robb, what's wrong?”

“It's Arya.”

“Father is mad at Arya for fighting?” Jon wanted to make light of it, Arya was always getting into this kind of mess, how could this one be that much different? Robb had never seemed that upset about it before.

“The King will be her soon, and, it's just different now.” Robb finished lamely. “Do you want to spar with a real man. I'll knock you on your butt, unlike that dummy there.” Robb grabbed two of the practice swords and tossed one to Jon.

Robb wasn't the only one acting strange. Everyone seemed to be acting strange. Lady Stark was angry and snapping at everyone, to the point that even Tyrion and Margaery seemed to be avoiding her. It was hard for Jon to see them with Lady Stark. They offered help and were assigned tasks. The more they did for her, the more she showed them favor. Even the Imp. He had tried all his life to get onto her good side and in recent weeks he'd seen both Tyrion and Margaery manage to do exactly that. She had not been particularly welcoming to either at first, but up until today she seemed to be warming to them.

Today she was shooting both looks that could freeze over all seven hells.

The younger boys were quiet and following Margaery instead of their mother, and Arya followed Sansa to their needlework session with almost the same look at Bran and Rickon had on her face.

Jon finally caught up with Robb again. “What's wrong with everyone?” he asked.

Robb shrugged. “I don't know. Mother and Father had an argument last night. Mother was crying afterwards. This morning Father drug Tyrion into his solar and I haven't seen either of them since.”

“Did Tyrion do something to Arya?” Jon asked, ready to defend his sister's honor.

“I don't think so.” Robb said, looking down. Looking away. Looking guilty. “I have to go, Jon.”

Jon decided that while everyone was distracted he would ride out into the wolfswood to see if he could find Ghost. He saddled his own horse and rode out through Winter Town before turning off the King's road into the woods. His father had forbidden him from going to look for Ghost earlier, but now it seemed that he would not notice if Jon was missing for a few hours. Sometimes it felt like his father wasn't noticing him at all.

It seemed like everyone else was taken care of, even Rickon had a betrothal arranged, but not Jon. He was of an age with Robb, it didn't seem right that he was being overlooked, even if he was the bastard. He noticed Lady Stark was looking at him differently these days. Did she find some comfort in the fact that his father had forgotten him in all his planning for the future?

Jon decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. He resolved to talk to his father when he returned to Winterfell. There was still no sign of Ghost.

Jon found Lord Stark in his solar with Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion had become a favorite to his father since he had been here. Jon had readily accepted being second to Robb, but now it seemed he had to take a place under Tyrion as well. He liked the little man, but he also felt annoyance at all the trust and responsibility they gave him in the past few months.

“Jon,” this father greeted him, “Is there something you need?”

“If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd like to talk.”

His father exchanged a look with Tyrion, then Tyrion nodded, “I'll wish the two of you a good evening then. Do you want to tell Arya, or shall I?”

“You seem to have a knack for getting her to co-operate, perhaps it would be best if you told her.”

Tyrion nodded again and left the room.

“Tell Arya what?” asked Jon.

“That her wedding will be next week,” father looked as if it was painful even to say it.

“Next week? Why? She's still a child.”

“You think I don't know that?” There was a dangerous edge in his father's voice.

“Then why?”

“The situation has changed. The details are not your concern, but Catelyn and I have decided that it is in Arya's best interest to be married immediately.”

Jon was stunned. He had heard of this kind of marriage from time to time, usually when a noble girl found herself with child, but Arya had not even flowered yet. And he didn't think that Tyrion and Arya had that kind of relationship anyway, they seemed to be friends.

The way he and Arya had been not that long ago. That was another reason he resented Tyrion Lannister. Arya was his favorite sister, but recently it seemed like she spent most of her free time with the Imp, and barely even talked to Jon anymore.

“You didn't come here to talk to me about Arya,” his father prompted. “What is on your mind, son?”

Jon swallowed and took a breath, forcing himself to stand up straight. “I am of an age with Robb.”

His father laughed. “I had not forgotten.”

“You have made betrothals for Robb and Sansa and even Rickon. Arya is going to be married in a few days. Did you forget about me? What about my future?”

His father sighed, rubbing his temple a little. “It seems to me that you often talk about joining the Night's Watch,” he finally offered.

Jon nodded. “Is that why you didn't try to find anyone for me to marry?”

“In part,” his father looked uncomfortable. “I have given it quite a bit of thought, Jon, but it is not as easy to find you a good match.”

“Because I'm a bastard.” Jon felt the resentment build up inside.

“That is not as much of a problem as you might think.” Jon's father sighed and sat back in his chair. “Sit down, Jon.”

Jon sat across from his father in the seat that Tyrion had recently vacated and waited for his father to continue.

“There are plenty of women who might be a match for you, Jon, both from lesser houses and the children of some of our servants. Jeyne Poole for instance, although I think it would be better to wait for a better opportunity. A widow with land would be my choice.”

“A widow?” Jon asked, confused as to how a widow would be better than Jeyne, who was a reasonably attractive girl, in spite of frequently looking at him just like Sansa did – as if he were a less worthy of her attentions than the children named Stark.

“It would be a way to get you lands and a keep of your own. If I could, that is what I would want for you, Jon.”

“But you can't?”

“There aren't any suitable widows at the moment.” his father smiled. “It is easier with Robb, since he is already heir to Winterfell, it does not matter as much who he marries.”

His father's face turned serious then. “But it is the Watch that I want to talk about with you Jon. Do you still plan to join the Night's Watch?”

Jon considered his answer carefully. It was one thing to say you wanted to be a brother of the night's watch as a child when it was only one of many possibilities. But now they were talking about real plans for the future. Did he want to spend his entire life on the Wall?

“Even a bastard can rise high in the Night's Watch.” Jon started.

“It is not the only place a bastard can do well.” His father returned. “There have been bastards in the kingsguard as well. Not to mention a number of merchants and even a few members of the small council. Perhaps you would like to learn a trade, or become an advisor to a king?”

It was Jon's turn to smile. “The politics of the south don't interest me,” he claimed. A few weeks with the Tyrells had convinced him that politics in general were not to his liking. He tried to imagine himself as a blacksmith or owning a shop in the Winter town. They were fine ambitions, but did not seem half as interesting as defending the Seven Kingdoms from wildings. At heart, Jon was a soldier.

“The Night's Watch is an honorable life. I could do well there.” Jon finally answered.

His father only nodded, looking sad. “It may be for the best.”

“I'm sending Tyrion and Arya to take Rickon to Bear Island once they are wed. Perhaps you would like to travel with them? They can accompany you to the wall as well.”

“Next week?” Jon was stunned. While he knew this was a serious discussion and not just childish dreaming, he did not expect to take action on any plans quite so soon.

His father nodded again, “If you are sure you want to join the Watch, then this is as good a time as any.”

Jon thought something felt wrong about this plan, it was so rushed, so soon.

“What about the King's visit. We would all miss it.” Jon asked.

“Did you want to meet the King?” His father asked, as if anyone would not want to meet the king.

“I was looking forward to seeing what a king looks like.”

His father laughed again. “He is tall, taller than any man in Winterfell except for Hodor. He has dark hair and blue eyes. He was the kind of man who women sigh over and give their virtue to. I could understand your wanting to meet him if you were Sansa, but Jon, he is only a man like any other.”

“But, won't he expect to meet us. I mean, maybe not me, but Arya and Rickon?”

Looking troubled again, his father said, “Probably. I'm sure he expects the whole family to be here. But it is not something he has commanded and there are other concerns that we need to consider.”

“Like taking Rickon to Bear Island to meet his betrothed? Right now. When he is only four? At least ten years before he could actually be wed?”

“Yes. Now that you mention it. I think that's very important.”

Jon just looked at his father. That had to be a joke, but he looked dead serious. “Can I think on it overnight?”

“You can think on it until the wedding if you like.” His father said, dismissing him.

Jon left the solar feeling stunned. Arya getting married. Father sending half his children away right before the King arrived in Winterfell. Being asked to join the Night's Watch almost immediately.

It had always been his dream to join the Watch. He hoped to do heroic things, to protect the realm and win some of the recognition he always felt that he deserved, but didn't get when he stood next to Robb. It would be a new life, out of he shadow of his half-brother the heir, Catelyn Tully's trueborn son.

Jon loved Robb, and always accepted his position as second-born, but he longed to get away and get out of Robb's shadow as well. A part of him was thrilled that his life was about to start with this great adventure, but another part was frightened by the finality of it all. What if there was some attractive widow with a keep some day and he missed his chance to be one of Robb's bannermen because he was so anxious to join the Watch?

But a man could rise high in the Night's Watch. They didn't promote men because of their birth. The commander of Eastwatch by the Bay was a bastard. And even some of the past Lord Commanders had been bastards. He could be Lord Commander some day, and then he and Robb would stand side-by-side, as equals. Not as a Lord and his vassal.

Jon felt his resolve strengthening. He was ready for this new life. He would use this opportunity to show them all what he was made of. He would be a ranger, and one day he might be first ranger like his Uncle Benjen, maybe when Uncle Benjen was the Lord Commander. And then he could be the Lord Commander after Benjen.

Jon fell asleep fantasizing about the battles he would command against the Wildings, and about meeting Robb again after being named Lord Commander.

He dreamed again. It felt like a wolf dream, but this time he was a man, dressed all in black, riding out beyond the wall with Ghost at his side. They came to a wilding village and entered it. Everything was quiet and deserted. He wondered where the wildings had gone. And then he heard Ghost growl, low in his throat, and a scraping sound behind him.

They turned to face a group of wildings. Men. Women. Children. They were all cold, with frost on their skin and in their hair. Their eyes were all the same bright blue, ice cold and shining like stars.

Jon felt the fear rise up in him then. He reached for his sword, but could not find it. He was not armed. He turned to run, only to find a creature of ice sitting on a dead horse. It raised a frost-covered spear and pointed at him. Ghost lunged at the creature, and Jon woke with a start.

He reached over to find Ghost still missing.


	23. Winterfell (Sansa)

Sansa walked around Winterfell with a small secret smile, like the one Margaery Tyrell often wore. She had her hair arranged in an elaborate southern style with braids weaving around her head and trailing down her back. She felt beautiful and mysterious.

Margaery had been teaching her to flirt. She was to practice her new skills only with Loras, Margaery's brother, but today she wanted to see if it would work on other men as well. Loras might only be pretending, for Margaery's sake, to enjoy her attentions.

As Sansa looked around for a likely target for her newly acquired skills she spied Jon, looking out over the courtyard, brooding as usual. It seemed like he had been more moody than normal the past few days. That might make him the perfect target. If she could distract him from whatever was bothering him then it would be proof that what Margaery told her was true.

She never spent much time with Jon. Her mother had taught her to call him her half-brother. Margaery never said that. She always called him her brother, but she also often referred to him as a bastard. Which seemed strange, no one around Winterfell was quite so comfortable with that word. But it fell from Margaery's lips as if it didn't even mean anything. It was like saying the sky was blue, and carried less taint to it than half-brother did when her mother corrected her.

Bastard or half-brother, Jon did not seem like he would pretend to be impressed with her attempts to flirt on a normal day, and today he would be even less likely to respond with his black mood.

Sansa strolled up to Jon slowly. “Good morning, Jon,” she said warmly. She smiled a little and looked him in the eye for just a moment before turning her attention to the courtyard he had been staring at so intently.

He looked flustered. Good.

“Good morning to you, too, Sansa.” Jon replied, looking at her with suspicion.

Sansa felt the excitement build in her. It was working, she already had him off-guard. She felt like bouncing on her toes, but she kept the excitement in check and tried to copy the calm demeanor that her mentor always displayed.

She took her time and tried to put herself in Jon's place. It was better to guess what they are thinking, Margaery said, than to ask directly. If she were Jon, why would she be moping around? She saw Robb cross the yard to the kennels, probably checking on Grey Wind. That might be it. She had not seen Ghost for a few days either.

Theon had mentioned something about the albino runt running off in the woods. It was a cruel thing to joke about, but Sansa didn't think Jon had heard the comment, so it might not matter that much if it was cruel.

Sansa wasn't sure if it was Ghost that was troubling Jon, but according to Margaery the guess did not have to be right, only possible.

“Has Ghost come back yet?” Sansa asked.

She saw the suspicion leave Jon's eyes then, and the sadness come back. Yet he seemed to relax as well. It happened just the way that Margaery said it would. Why hadn't her mother or Septa Mordane ever taught her these things?

“No. Father says he will come back if he wants to, but he is a wild thing and I can't own him the way I could a dog.” Jon's voice was sad and flat.

“You never tied him up at night like the rest of us.” Sansa observed. Then scolded herself. It probably sounded like she was blaming him for Ghost's disappearance.

“I know. I wish I had,” Jon confessed. “I miss him. I even dreamed of him last night.”

Sansa perked up at the mention of Jon's dream. “You dreamed you were Ghost?” she asked, thinking of her own dreams of being Lady.

“No. No, not last night. Usually, when I dream of Ghost, I am inside his head. But last night was different. I dreamed I was in the Night's Watch and Ghost was beside me exploring a wilding village.”

“Oh,” Sansa said, a little disappointed. “It's just...” she started, then shrugged, it was too late to continue to practice flirting, she had already been distracted by the thought that Jon had the same kind of dreams as her, and let herself fall into her own thoughts and emotions. Margaery had told her over and over that she must not do that. Sansa sighed, then finished her thought.

“It's just that sometimes I dream that I'm Lady.”

Jon turned to face her then, looking at her strangely. Maybe it was a strange thing to dream of being a wolf. It had never happened before she got Lady.

“Do they seem,” Jon hesitated, “more real than the other kind of dreams?”

Sansa nodded.

Jon nodded back. “I have those too – except I'm not Lady, I'm Ghost.”

“Have you had any since Ghost ran off?” The words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.

“I did. He... I... we found a girl in the woods. It seemed like someone had been hunting her. There were hounds and we chased them off.” Jon paused and looked back over the courtyard again.

Sansa reached out and placed her hand on his to try to comfort him. “It must mean that Ghost is okay, maybe even that he will be back... if you are dreaming of him like that.” Sansa wasn't sure that was true, but it seemed like it could be.

Jon grinned at her a little and placed his other hand on top of hers.

Sansa felt a tingly excitement when he did. Was this how men were supposed to feel when she flirted with them. It made her want to be alone with Jon, to have him touch her more. She had never noticed before, but Jon was really quite attractive. At least, when he smiled. He didn't smile often, perhaps that was why she never noticed it before.

He gave her hand a little squeeze and nodded to the other side of the courtyard. “Look, your mother...” and he pulled away from her.

Sansa felt a loss as he stepped away from her, but was relieved as well. She had not seen her as quickly as Jon, but she knew she would have to listen to a lecture if her mother caught her talking to Jon, smiling at him, touching him. It would start with how she was betrothed and end with how Jon was only her half-brother. No matter what, the middle would probably be a rant against acting like Margaery or listening to her advice. Even though Margaery seemed to know a lot more about how to make men like her than her mother did.

“It's time for my needlework anyway.” Sansa excused herself. Sending one quick smile over he shoulder as she walked away and smiling wickedly at the blush on Jon's face when she did.

Margaery was already in the room with her cousins. They were looking at fabric and debating what color was best.

“Best for what?” asked Sansa.

“For a wedding dress.” Alla replied with enthusiasm.

“Are Margaery and Robb going to be married soon?” Sansa asked, feeling a little lost.

“Not for Margaery. For Arya...” whispered Mega.

“Arya? But she won't be married for years and years.”

“Actually, your parents have decided that she and Tyrion should be married next week. We have so many preparations to make between now and then. Even if it's rushed, your sister deserves a beautiful wedding, don't you think?”

“I suppose so.” Sansa was shocked. Her sister was going to be married next week? In truth, she couldn't picture her sister getting married at all. And doubted that it would make a difference one way or the other whether the wedding was beautiful. Arya didn't care about nice things the way normal girls did.

“Why would they want her to be married now?” Sansa asked instead.

Margaery and Elinor exchanged glances. Margaery crossed the room and took Sansa's hand. “It has to do with the King's visit.” she said in a low voice. “I think your father decided that it would be better for Arya if she was not here when the King arrives.

Sansa could feel her jaw fall. It was absolutely true, of course. Arya was wild and willful and always ruined anything nice. She would undoubtedly be an embarrassment to the family while the King was here. But her father? He only laughed when Arya pulled her pranks and ran wild. What would make him decide to send her away now?

“I don't understand. Father loves Arya, why would he send her away?”

Elinor piped up then, “Tyrion wanted to leave as well. He doesn't get along with his sister, the Queen, and so your father found an excuse to send the two of them on an errand.”

Margaery shot a look toward the other girl. “It's not that he wants to get rid of them, he is just worried about the trouble they might cause with the King and his family. He's doing it to protect them.”

Sansa thought about this for a minute. The stories she had heard about King Robert when he was a boy in the Eyrie with her father didn't make him sound like the kind of man who would mind Arya's antics. In fact, he sounded like a man who would laugh at her misbehavior the way her father did. Maybe he laughed at Arya because she reminded him of King Robert in some way. But his family...

The Queen especially. Queen Cersei was supposed to be very beautiful, but her father didn't seem to like her. Maybe he was afraid the Queen would be offended by Arya. And how could she not? The way Arya behaved a times. She was likely to throw food at the Queen during the feast and ruin her clothes. That must be it. And she was Tyrion's sister, maybe he had told her father that she was not as forgiving as Lady Stark about that kind of thing.

“What color do you think Arya would like best?” Elinor cut in, holding out three lengths of cloth, one white like fresh snowfall, another an aged ivory, and the third a pale grey that was almost white.

“It doesn't really matter with Arya, if it's a dress she won't wear it.”

“It's her wedding,” Margaery pointed out, “she will have to wear it. But we want to make her a dress she will like.”

Sansa just shook her head. Even after weeks with Arya they must not know her very well. She hated dresses, all dresses.

“We will find a design that allows her to move easily. I was thinking of something with a slit skirt...”

“I don't think my mother would like that.” Sansa shook her head again.

“But it would make it easy to run or climb or fight.” Mega pointed out. She was almost as wild as Arya at times and most of her wardrobe was designed to allow just that kind of freedom of movement, but at the same time appeared feminine enough.

“I think the ivory would bring out her color best.” Alla suggested.

“But the grey would match her eyes.” Elinor pointed out.

“Why does it matter? Even if she does wear it, it will only be once. And she doesn't care how her clothes look.”

“Tyrion might.” Margaery said, and her cousins giggled.

Sansa blushed. She had not thought about Arya's soon-to-be husband. “Well, do you think he cares more about her eyes or her skin?” asked Sansa doubtfully. She wanted to be included in the group, even if they were wasting their time trying to make a dress that Arya would like.

“Her eyes.” Margaery declared with confidence. I've seen them together and he admires her spirit and intelligence. The ivory might make sense if she were older and had more of a woman's body, but she doesn't yet, so it would be wasted on her.”

Margaery gave Sansa a speculative look. “We should save the Ivory for Sansa.”

Sansa could feel herself blush. She didn't really have any womanly curves yet either, but the ivory was lovely and she was already thinking about what style dress she would like to be married in.

With the color decided, Alla pulled out some parchment and a pen to make some sketches. She had a maester's talent for illustration and the dresses she drew were all beautiful. Sansa wished Alla could be there when it was her turn to be married.

Margaery pulled Sansa away from the other girls while they were examining the designs and debating the merits of each.

“Are you upset that Arya is getting married first?” Margaery asked.

Why would she think that? Sansa didn't care if Arya got married or not, now or later. She shook her head. And then she realized that Margaery was doing the same thing with her that she had tried with Jon that morning. Not asking directly what was wrong, but trying to guess.

“No. I don't care about Arya getting married.” It was out of Sansa's mouth before she thought about how that might sound.

“You should care. She's very young. She seems happy with Tyrion now, but she has never really thought about marriage. He promised her to let her learn to use a sword and that's really all she seems to think about the marriage – just a chance to do what she wants. She hasn't considered what it really means to be a wife.”

Margaery left her comment to ripen in the silence. Sansa could feel herself blush.

“But we all have to be wives someday,” she offered as an excuse. “Does it really matter that much?”

Margaery sighed. “It might. I like your sister, Sansa, and I hope she will be happy. It always seems tragic when a young woman is married too quickly, or against her will.”

Sansa thought it was tragic that she was engaged to a man she never met. She was going to be married against her will, but no one seemed to agree that was tragic.

Margaery sighed again, and shook her head. “I like your sister, Sansa. I know that she is very different from you. You see all the things she is not. She is not ladylike, and she does not like needlework, but have you ever considered what she is?”

Sansa looked at her blankly.

“She is fierce and loyal, she is high-spirited and intelligent and brave.”

“And I'm not.” Sansa finished.

Margaery took Sansa's hand then. “You are beautiful and courteous and graceful. You have many good qualities, Sansa. You both do. You should try to see your sister for what she is, rather than what she is not. It's important to do that with women as well as with men.”

Sansa could see that Margaery was using all her tricks on her right then. And they were working. Sansa wanted to agree with Margaery, wanted Margaery to like her, to approve of her.

She felt worse sitting with Margaery next to her, holding her hand and pleading with her than she ever did when Mother or Septa Mordane had lectured her on how to behave. Neither of them had ever suggested that she should try to appreciate Arya just the way she was either. They had told her how important it was to be a good role model for her sister, how much better Arya would be if she were more like Sansa.

It was hard to think someone might like Arya exactly the way she was. It felt like they could not like both of them, since they were so different. So if they liked Arya so much, how could they like her too?

Margaery stroked Sansa's hair. You don't always have to choose you know, just because you like lemon cakes doesn't mean you can't like crab stew too. They are different and they each have their place.

Margaery pulled Sansa into an embrace then. "You will be the most beautiful bride when it is your turn, but this week we need to try to help your sister to have as nice a wedding as possible in so short a time – and in spite of her boyish ways."

Margaery pulled back a little, keeping her hand on Sansa's hair at the back of her neck. She gave her a little smirk and asked, “you can do that for your sister, can't you?”

Sansa sighed now. It was not like she could refuse anything when Margaery asked. “I suppose so.”

By the end of the day, Sansa found herself just as caught up in the challenge of making a dress for Arya as the other girls. From time to time someone would make a bold suggestion – like adding pockets in the sleeves for hiding daggers – that would leave the whole group laughing at Arya. But it was a nice kind of laughing, not like when she laughed with Jeyne Pool over whispered names like 'Arya Horseface'. This teasing was different, and Sansa thought if Arya were there to overhear it she would probably laugh along with them.

Unless she was demanding that pockets inside the sleeves were a necessity after all. In the end, Sansa thought she was starting to understand what Margaery meant about seeing people for who they were. When she thought of Arya as her sister, then her actions were embarrassing. But if Arya was just -- Arya, well, it might even be funny if she threw food at the Queen, or hid daggers up her sleeves.

That evening, after supper, Sansa was returning to her room when she overhead raised voices. She paused in the hallway, listening.

“But I do understand,” Sansa recognized Arya's whining voice.

As quietly as she could, Sansa followed the voices, careful to stay out of sight.

“Ned...” she could hear the pleading in her mother's voice.

“There must be no question about the legitimacy of the marriage.” Her father was using his Lord's voice, which meant there was no point in arguing because he had made up his mind about the issue.

“She's just a little girl,” her mother tried again. This time Sansa thought she could hear tears. She remembered what Margaery had said about using tears as weapons and wondered if her mother was really about to cry, or just trying to get her father to listen.

“I know what it means to be married!” Arya claimed loudly.

“You don't” her mother whispered.

“I've seen the hounds in the kennels, and the horses. I know that men do that with their wives too.”

“It's not exactly like that,” her father sounded embarrassed.

Sansa tried to imaging the Imp mounting Arya like a stallion. She found the image amusing, until her mind twisted to put her in Ayra's place. That was not a pleasant thought at all. What about her Dornish Prince? Would she be expected to let him do the same? Or Prince Joffery? Even if she could marry him instead of the Dornish prince, she would be expected to give him heirs.

But no, she had seen serving girls in the hallways with her father's men, they would kiss them and wrap their legs around them. It was much more romantic that way. It was hard to imagine Arya doing that with the Imp though, if for no other reason than that she was taller than him.

They had gone into Arya's room and closed the door. Sansa snuck up to the door and pressed her ear to the crack. The voices were too muffled to understand much. She made out certain words like “proof” and “bloody sheet,” and the lack of concern in her sister's voice.

Arya never did seem to mind a little blood or a few bruises. In fact, she often bragged about them. Sansa would feel humiliated to think that a bloody sheet would be shown to prove she had lost her maidenhead on her wedding night, but it seemed like just another adventure from the tone in Arya's voice.

 _Brave_ , Margaery had called her. Sansa was glad that it was Arya and not her. And she regretted feeling jealous of the attention Arya was getting. She fell asleep that night with resolving to be a better sister to Arya during their remaining week together.

She dreamed that she was Lady again. She saw Nymeria in the kennels, whining at the door and scratching to be let out. She thought she could feel their brother, the quiet one, outside somewhere. _We are safe here, s_ he wanted to reassure her sister. But her sister didn't care about safety, she only wanted her freedom, the same freedom that had taken their brother from them too soon.

The next morning on her way to breakfast Robb called out to her from the forge. She was tempted to ignore him until she saw that Loras was there with her brothers, and Bran was ready to chase her down. So she smiled and walked over to them, her stomach growling.

“Try this, Sansa,” Robb demanded as she came near. He held out a slender sword.

“What is it?” asked Sansa, taking the sword hesitantly. It was much lighter than the one they had been using the other day in the godswood. She could easily hold it with one hand.

“See?” Jon said. “Even Sansa can hold it!”

Loras came around to Sansa and wrapped his arms around her, adjusting her grip on the sword. “Like this,” he whispered in her ear. Sansa blushed and swallowed the words she had wanted to throw at Jon.

“It's a wedding gift for Arya.” Bran piped up. “Do you think she will like it?”

Sansa looked at the sword she was holding. “It's awfully small. Don't you think she'd prefer a real sword instead of a toy?”

“It is a real sword,” Tyrion pointed out. “It's the kind they use in Braavos.”

Sansa had never paid much attention to swords, but she admired the light weight of this one before she handed it back to Robb.

“It's Jon's gift. I'm making a belt and scabbard for it.” Robb passed the sword back to Jon.

“What are you making for Arya?” Bran asked.

Sansa blushed. She had not been thinking about a gift at all. She was helping make Arya's dress, but did that count if it was mainly a gift from the Tyrells? “I haven't decided yet.”

“You better hurry, the wedding only a few days away.” Bran told her.

“I know that. I'm helping make her dress.” Sansa told her little brother.

“I've sent to Braavos for someone to train Arya in the water dance,” Tyrion said, “But there is no way anyone could get to Winterfell before the wedding.” He seemed disappointed.

“What is the water dance?” Sansa asked, confused. She thought they had been talking about swords.

“That's what they call the Braavosi-style of sword play.” Jon clarified for her, leaning in toward her ear so she could hear him. It also sent a shiver up her spine to have him stand so close.

Sansa smiled at Jon. “That seems like a funny name for sword fighting.”

Loras laughed. “All fighting is like a dance, but swords most of all.” Sansa thought she would very much like to dance with Loras without a sword. And maybe with Jon too.

“Garlan and I were thinking of having a hauberk made, but we can't decide between leather and chain mail.” Loras was looking at her as if she could help them decide.

“I'm sure I don't know which is better.” Sansa said, feeling confused.

Just then she was saved by a commotion at the gate. A party of hunters was riding in with what looked like a wilding girl, and Ghost.

“Jon, it's Ghost.” Sansa breathed.

Jon turned to look, a big grin breaking over his face. “Ghost!”

The direwolf lunged in Jon's direction, jumping up and licking his face. He was still a pup, but as tall as Jon when he stood on his hind legs. Sansa didn't think Lady was as tall. But Theon had always referred to Jon's wolf as the runt of the litter. Was he actually growing faster than the rest?

Everyone moved to see what the hunting party had turned up. Sansa was just about to follow when Jon grabbed her shoulder, holding her back.

“That's the girl from my dream,” he whispered.

Sansa felt a little fear at his words. “Are you sure?”

Jon just nodded, releasing her shoulder. If Jon's dreams were true, then were hers as well?

Sansa followed the others at a distance until she saw her father striding out into the courtyard. She hurried to join her mother, following Lord Stark at a close distance. The crowds parted to let them through.

The girl was more wild looking than Arya. The rags she wore for clothes were torn and bloody. She had a wild look in her eyes. _Wilding._ Sansa thought. They would probably kill her then, what else would you do with a wilding south of the wall. That was probably why they were hunting her in the first place.

“We found her near the border of the Bolton lands. There were dead guards with the Bolton sigil nearby.”

“And who is she?”

“She hasn't given us a name, m'lord, but tis obvious she's a wilding.”

Her father gave them all a stern look, then approached the girl. “Do you have a name?” he asked her, but she only looked at him, wide-eyed and afraid.

“She has been injured. Take her to Maester Luwin and see to her wounds.”

Two of father's guards stepped forward and grabbed the girl by either side. Ghost appeared then, growling at the men.

“Gently,” commanded her father. They took her away, more kindly than before, with Ghost following along after the girl, and Jon trailing after Ghost.

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. On the morning of Arya's wedding there was a breakfast where everyone brought gifts for the bride and groom.

Margaery presented Arya with the Tyrell gift of a wedding outfit. They had settled on a modified riding outfit. The top was a fitted bodice, not unlike a man's doublet, but covered in lace that was designed to be easily removed. The girls had giggled about how the men during the bedding ceremony would try to tear her clothes off only to find a bit of lace the size of a handkerchief tearing away from the real garment beneath.

Sansa had fashioned twin wolf heads made of seed pearls on either side of the bodice. It was not exactly like embroidering a sigil on a man's doublet, but it might be close enough that Arya would appreciate the work.

The bottom half of the dress was actually a separate skirt, but split in the middle like pants so she could ride in it, and covered with the same kind of lace as the top. The Tyrell girls thought that was a very clever device, since Arya would be traveling after her wedding it could serve as a traveling outfit as well. Sansa knew the color was all wrong for traveling, especially when Arya was the one wearing it. The skirt would be ruined by mud and dirt before she ever reached Bear Island. But the thought was kindly met and Sansa held her breath hoping Arya would not refuse the gift.

She did not. She only thanked the Tyrells and set the dress aside.

Then Garlan gave her the hauberk and Arya's eyes lit up. They had decided on chain mail then. They had managed to color the metal somehow so that the rings hinted at yellow and red. Gold and Blood. The gold rings on the back had the pattern of a lion, the Lannister sigil. Arya demanded Tryion help her try it on immediately.

She was admiring the chainmail when Robb and Jon brought their gifts forward. The Braavosi sword was sheathed in a dark grey scabbard that belted around he waist. Arya insisted on trying it on as well. She drew the sword and pointed it at Tyrion's face.

“Be careful, Arya,” Jon cautioned, “that's real steel you are holding.”

“Yes, be careful, Arya. It's impolite to kill your husband before the wedding.” Tyrion added.

Everyone laughed nervously and Arya sheathed the sword.

Her father came forward next. “We haven't forgotten the groom,” he assured Tyrion, and he gave him a stack of books from Winterfell's library. Sansa had been in the library when Maester Luwin was sorting them out. They were all old books about dragons. She thought she could see tears in Tyrion's eyes.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Tyrion said in a choked voice. Sansa could tell the gift meant as much to Tyrion as the sword and armor meant to Arya.

There were more gifts, mostly things to help them on the journey they planned for after the wedding. It was not a very big celebration. A wedding between two great houses should have all the bannermen present, but the only house close enough to show up on such short notice was the Cerwyns. Lord Medger would arrive later that day, with his children, Cley and Jonnelle, but planned to leave again before the feast was over.

Sansa was glad that her wedding would not be so rushed. She wanted to have lots of important Lords and Ladies bring gifts and well-wishes. She pushed the thought away. It was not nice to think about your own wedding while attending someone else's. Margaery had said so.

When the breakfast was over the girls helped Arya gather her gifts and took her away to dress and prepare for the wedding ceremony. Sansa as trailing along with the women and noticed the men all seemed to be following Tyrion out in similar fashion.

When they met again it was under the wierwood tree. The afternoon sun was warm and shined through the blood-red leaves of the wierwood as if they were the stained glass of some great sept.

Arya entered the godswood on her father's arm. She was a vision. Almost beautiful, thought Sansa. She was so used to seeing Arya running around in boys clothes and covered in dirt. But this afternoon she looked stunning. Washed and dressed in the gown they had made for her, she had her hair braided around her head and falling down her back. The only thing that marred the image was the hauberk and sword that Arya insisted on wearing over her wedding dress. Even that shone in the sun as she moved and the polished metal looked as if it contained gems when she turned.

Their mother had not had the heart to deny Arya's request today, so there she stood, the seed pearl wolves covered with a Lannister lion. Sansa tried not to feel slighted, she never expected Arya to like the dress anyway.

Tyrion waited for her at the foot of the wierwood tree. His eyes shining with wonder as he watched his bride. He wore his house colors, a dark red doublet the color of the wierwood leaves. He wasn't handsome; he could never be that, but he had done his best, just as Arya had. And he looked happy, sharing a look and a smile with Arya as she walked toward him.

“Who comes?” Called out Septon Chalye. “Who comes before the god?”

“Arya Stark comes her to be wed.” Answered their father. Trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I,” Tyrion said, his voice raspy with emotion. “Tyrion of House Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. I claim her. Who gives her?”

“I, Eddard of House Stark, her father.” Sansa could hear a tremor in her father's voice too as he said the words. He turned to Arya then and asked, “Arya, will you take this man?”

Arya looked at Tyrion and smiled, mischief in her eyes. “I do.”

Lord Stark removed the maiden's cloak that Sansa had loaned to her sister and Tyrion replaced it with a light red Lannister cloak. He had to streach to reach around her shoulders and fasten it.

Fortunate that they were getting married now instead of years later like they had first planned, thought Sansa. If they had waited Arya would surely have grown another foot and her little husband would not have been able to cloak her in his protection at all, at least not without a stool to stand on. That would have ruined the wedding, which otherwise was quite nice.

The septon stepped forward, while the wedding was done as far as the Northern customs went, they were also to recite the vows of the Seven. But before he could begin, Tyrion asked him to wait.

“There is another matter we need to address first. My Lady.” He turned to Arya. She grinned widely and drew her sword. Sansa could feel the intake of breath from the guests around her.

Then Arya knelt and offered Tyrion her sword. “I pledge to shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be.”

Sansa heard several gasps and her mother's whispered, “Ned...”

“I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“It is done.” her father whispered back. “It can't be undone.”

“And I vow that you shall always have a place at my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor.” Tyrion placed his hand on the wierwood then, “I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise.”

Arya rose and replace her sword in it's scabbard.

“Now you can proceed.” Tyrion told the shocked Septon Chayle.

Sansa watched as they recited the wedding vows of the Seven under the wierwood tree, and the septon tied a ribbon around their wrists. She wondered what kind of wedding ceremony she would have in Dorne. There was so much she didn't know about that Southern kingdom. To hear Margaery and her ladies talk, it was as if Dorne were another land altogether.

Once all seven prayers were finished, asking for the blessings of the Seven, the wedding party retired to the great hall and the feast began. Sansa was delighted to discover that the Cerwyns had managed to find a wandering singer and brought him along as their wedding gift to the happy couple.

There was music and dancing. She danced with Loras and Garlan, Theon and Robb. She looked for Jon too, but could not find him.

“Who are you looking for?” asked Theon coming up behind her.

“No one.” Sansa replied. “I was only hoping for another dance.”

Theon offered his arms to her and she accepted. “Your brothers are giving Arya and her husband one more gift.” Theon whispered to her.

“What is it?” Sansa asked. Arya was already in love with her new sword, what more could they have to offer?

“They thought that she would want her wolf with her tonight. They are taking Nymeria to the bridal chamber.”

“They can't do that!” Exclaimed Sansa.

“Oh, they can, no one noticed them leave.” Theon reassured her.

The music stopped then and Sansa saw Robb and Jon return to the hall with grins that clearly said they had been up to no good.

“Time for the bedding.” Theon called out, and the other men took up the chant. “To bed. To bed.”

Arya looked excited, and Tryion looked uncomfortable.

The Tyrell boys grabbed Arya and lifted her to their shoulders. They spun her while the singer sang, “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown.” Jory took one of Arya's slippers to a roar of encouragement and then the men swarmed toward her, each grabbing one of the pieces of lace that covered her new riding outfit.

The Tyrell girls led the assault on Tyrion. Margaery and her handmaids lifting him like her brothers had lifted Arya. The women held back where the men had been all to anxious to help disrobe Arya. Finally, her mother pushed a few of the serving women forward to pull at the Imp's clothing.

Sansa went forward too and removed his dark red doublet, which the serving girls had unbuttoned. Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder to hold her back then. “That is enough, Sansa, there are plenty of others who want a turn as well.”

Sansa doubted that. She folded the doublet to return to Tyrion on the morrow.

At the end, Theon and Rickon snatched Arya's smallclothes with some help from Shaggydog. With only her brothers standing near her, they deposited Arya in the doorway of the bridal chamber, completely naked except for the scabbard that held her new sword.

Tyrion was naked too, his manhood stiff and straight.

Sansa overheard a bawdy comment, “Oh, there will be blood alright, but whose? Just take a look at that sword!”

“Which sword are you looking at, ser?” Margaery called out with a boisterous laugh.

“Hers, to be sure.” came the reply.

As her father closed the door on the naked couple, Sansa caught sight of glowing the glowing amber eyes, and she hoped Tyrion would be kind to her sister.

 


	24. Winterfell (Arya)

Arya was naked as her nameday. _Arya Lannister,_ she thought as the door was closed, _a swordswoman in training_.

“Here, put this on,” her new husband said in a low voice, tossing her a long tunic.

“You don't want me naked?” Arya asked, surprised.

Nymeria let out a little whine. Tyrion spun around, looking a little off-balance. “You brought your wolf?”

Arya shook her head. “I left her in the kennels with the others.” She pulled the tunic over her head and knelt by her wolf. “Good girl, Nymeria. Tyrion is my husband now, so we have to protect him.”

Her parents had talked to her one night the week before about how important it was that they “do their duty” as man and wife. They made it sound like an unpleasant chore, almost as bad as needlework, but she only had to do it once, not every day. She would never have to do stupid needlework again. Tyrion had promised that as his wife she could have servants do her needlework, and any other tasks she disliked.

“As it turns out, one does not need to be naked to consummate a marriage.” Tyrion slipped a similar tunic on himself before climbing onto the bed, but not before Arya got a good look at his manhood. It was much larger than she expected, and that made her a little nervous about what they were about to do. She knew it was supposed to hurt, and there would be blood. But training with a sword was like that as well. It was worth it to finally be free of the constraints her mother and Septa Mordane always put on her.

Nymeria whined again, and growled a little in Tyrion's direction.

The Imp gave Nymeria a worried look, then asked, “Do you trust me Arya?”

Arya nodded.

“Good. Then take off that sword, tell your wolf to behave, and climb into bed with me.” He said loudly, and bounced on the bed a bit making it squeak and bang up against the wall.

“Be a good girl, and stay here.” Arya commanded Nymeria, following Tyrion's lead by raising her voice so it might be heard on the other side of the door.

“What should I do?” She asked as she climbed into the bed, trying to make more noise than Tyrion had.

Tyrion smiled, a twinkle in his eye. Then he stood up on the bed. “Give me your hand, my lady.”

He pulled Arya to her feet next to him, and said loudly, looking at the door. “I suppose I should go slowly, since this is your first time.”

“You claim to be familiar with what goes on in brothels?” Tyrion whispered as they stood, hand in hand on the bed.

Arya nodded again.

“Good, then you know what kind of sounds whores make? Follow my lead, and make those sounds as loud as you like, in case the guards are listening at the door.”

And with that, Tyrion began to jump on the bed, slowly.

Nymeria whined and growled loudly from her corner.

Arya laughed and jumped as well.

“Oh, Arya!” Tyrion cried out, jumping a little faster. Nymeria let out a loud bark and another growl and started pacing around the bed.

Arya giggled first and then remembered the sounds she was supposed to be making. “Tyrion...” she panted. And then let out a moan that made Tyrion groan in response.

Nymeria continued to growl as she paced around the bed. After a few minutes of jumping and grunting and moaning Tyrion pulled her down on the bed with a final loud grunt, and a great banging of the bed against the wall. Nymeria let out a loud howl and then retreated to her corner of the room.

“That's not what they told me we would be doing.” Arya hissed. “We won't really be married if we don't do it the real way.”

“We will be just as married as you want, Arya. Stay there.”

The Imp climbed off their bed and opened a drawer in the bedside table. “Do you know what this is?” He asked.

Arya squinted at the little leather pouch he held in his hand and shook her head.

“Lady Margaery had one of her handmaids put this here for you. It seems that occasionally, in Highgarden, young maidens manage to lose their maidenheads before they are married.” Tyrion cleared his throat, “to a horse they like to say...”

“This, my dear, is your maidenhead. Lay back with your head on the pillow, yes, just like that.” Tyrion placed a hand near her ass and then told her to scoot over. Then he placed the bag next to his hand and reached over for a needle. He held it out to her. “Would you like to break your maidenhead, or shall I?”

Arya looked at him skeptically, but didn't move to take the needle from him.

Tyrion grinned. “Still hate needlework then? Fine...I'll do it.” He proceeded to poke holes in the bag. It was leaking blood on the sheet, a little at first and then much more as he bounced the bag around near the spot he had marked.

“I thought _I_ was supposed to bleed.” Arya pointed out.

“True, and you will, someday, when you are older and flowered. Until then, we will use this little gift from Lady Margaery to ensure that everyone is able to see a bloody sheet to prove that we are indeed husband and wife. If the day ever comes you don't wish to be my wife, I won't deny doing this Arya.” He gave her a very serious look then. “But as long as you wish to be my wife we need to keep this a secret just between us. You can't tell your parents, or even Lady Margaery who gave us this gift whether or not it was actually used.”

Tyrion picked up the pouch and looked at it skeptically. “Perhaps you should rub some of the blood between your thighs too.” Tyrion handed her the bladder.

Ayra nodded, trying to look as serious at Tyrion. In truth, she was a little disappointed. “Do you think we can do it for real before Sansa gets married?”

“Before Sansa...?” Tyrion shook his head. “I don't know Arya. We will do it when the time is right, and that time will come when you are older. I can't say whether Sansa will be married before or after that time comes.”

Tyrion took the bladder from her, and looked around the room for a place to dispose of it.

“You didn't think about what to do with it before?” Arya asked, happy to catch Tyrion without a plan. He always seemed to have a plan.

“Yes. Well, the way it was explained to me the bride usually, well...”

Tyrion was actually blushing and Arya giggled, “They what?”

He cleared his throat. “I was lead to understand that the bride places the bag inside her, um, well, the husband will break it when he...enters her... and so he never needs to know about it. I had to swear a strong oath I'd keep the secret before Lady Margaery would give me the instructions.”

“Then I won't tell either. I swore to keep your counsel after all.”

“And I swore not to ask you to do anything dishonorable.” Tyrion looked sad for a moment. “I'm sorry to begin our married life with a lie, by asking you to lie, but I believe it's for the best.”

“This blood is sticky and cold.” Arya complained, to take Tyrion's mind off their little prank. It didn't really feel like a lie to Arya, and she didn't want to think of it like that.

Tyrion squeezed the bladder and the last of the blood ran out over his hand. Then he handed the pouch to Arya, “do you think your wolf might eat the evidence?”

Arya gingerly took the bloody thing and went over to offer it to Nymeria. The wolf sniffed at it and licked the blood from her hand before taking the bloody leather and chewing on it.

When Arya turned back she could see that Tyrion had climbed onto the bed and had his manhood in his bloody fist, rubbing vigorously until it exploded onto the bloodstained sheet.

“There,” he breathed, sounding almost proud. “that should help fuel enough rumors to hide the truth until our children's children are born.”

“Get back in bed, my dear, and I will order you a bath.”

Arya climbed back into the bed hesitantly. The blood was still cold and sticky and she didn't really want to lay in it.

“Your tunic...” Tyrion gestured and Arya pulled off the tunic and handed it to him, noticing it also had a few bloodstains now. He pulled his own tunic off and hid both of them away before going to the door and opening it, naked and bloody.

“My lady would like a bath brought up,” he told the guards outside. Arya could see Jory glance in and pulled the sheet up quickly to hide herself from his view. She could see Jory's face turn green as he promised Tyrion to have a serving girl bring one right away.

Tryion closed the door, nodding.

It was not long before servants came with a tub and pails of water. They all glanced at Arya, and at Tyrion who was still standing naked in the middle of the room, in spite of shivering from the cold.

“And a fire, we need more wood for a fire.” Arya told the servants as she climbed naked from the bed, walking awkwardly because of the stickiness between her thighs. She left the blankets thrown back on the bed so the bloody sheets could at least dry.

Tyrion looked at the bed and added, “perhaps some fresh sheets as well?”

The servants nodded, one stoked the fire while the other stripped the soiled sheets from the bed, glancing back at Tyrion once or twice and blushing.

Arya didn't care. She climbed in the tub and let the hot water rinse away the pig's blood. One of the girls moved toward the tub, but Tyrion stopped her, “I'll see to my wife myself, thank you.”

The girls were quick to leave then, taking the soiled sheet with them, leaving the bed unmade. One returned while Arya was still in the bath, but Tyrion only took the clean linens from her and sent her away.

When she got out of the bath, he handed her the soiled tunic. “You want me to put that dirty one on?” she asked, surprised.

“I believe the blood has dried,” he nodded, pulling his on as well.

Then they returned to the bed to sleep. Nymeria jumped up on the bed and settled in between them, and Arya fell asleep with her arm around Nymeria.

The next morning there was a hush around the castle. Everyone seemed to be looking at Arya. She tried not to let it bother her. She just smiled and greeted them like normal, but they would turn away and not even look at her.

When her mother saw her, she cried out, “Arya!” and ran to her, pulling her into an embrace. “Are you alright?”

There were tears in her mother's eyes. Arya wanted to tell her then what had really happened in the bridal chamber, but she knew she could not.

“I'm fine. It hardly hurt at all.” Arya said instead, a little stiffly. At that her mother, sobbed and turned away, brushing at her eyes.

“Was it horrible?” whispered Sansa.

“No, not horrible. Mostly messy.” Arya replied, trying to stay as close to the truth at she could.

“I'm so sorry you had to get married so soon.” Sansa said in what might have been a sympathetic voice, except that Sansa never felt sorry for Arya, so she must be pretending.

“I'm not. I don't have to do needlework anymore.” Arya smiled a big smile and walked away towards the training yard.

The next two days were a flurry of activity. There was packing and preparing for a long journey. Arya was glad they were leaving. She didn't care for the way people were looking at her, or how they acted all sorry when they talked to her. She didn't like the way they were looking at Tyrion either.

“When do you think the water dancer will get here?” she asked him that first night.

“Oh, he won't get here at all,” Tyrion replied. “I sent instructions to have him meet us as the Wall instead. If he gets there before us, then we might meet him on the way from Bear Island.”

“Oh,” Arya said, disappointed. She would need to learn to fight quickly if she was reading the feelings toward Tyrion correctly. Even her father had turned cold, and it was his idea to have them get married immediately. Arya didn't understand why everyone was acting so funny, but she was glad they would be away soon.

Bear Island was even further away than Barrowtown had been. Arya was looking forward to the journey. Jon and Rickon would be coming with them, along with a few of her father's guards. Rickon would be staying at Bear Island to get to know his betrothed, Lyanna Mormont while Arya and Tyrion escorted Jon to the wall to take the black. If the King was headed south again by the time they got to the wall, then they would return to Winterfell. If not, there were other bannermen they could visit.

Arya was hoping that the King would stay in Winterfell long enough they could cross all the way to White Harbor. It would be a great adventure!

 


	25. Winterfell (Ned)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King finally arrives in Winterfell. This parallels very closely the same chapter in Game of Thrones...word for word except where the AU is showing through.

The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon.

Ned knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. The tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince. Tall and proud and golden, they bore little resemblance to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, who had been his guest for nearly half a year. Tyrion had riden north with Jon, Arya, Rickon and half a dozen of his guards. He wondered if they would be upset to have missed him by less than a week?

The huge man at the head of the column was flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kinsguard could only be the king, but he looked nothing like the man that Ned remembered. He seemed almost a stranger... until he vaulted off his horse with a familiar roar. “Ned!” he crushed him in a bone-cruching hug. “Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours.” The king looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. “You haven't changed at all.”

Would that Ned had been able to say the same. Fifteen years past, then they had ridden forth to win a throne, the Lord of Storm's End had been clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and muscled like a maiden's fantasy. Six and a half feet tall, he towered over lesser men, and when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He'd had a giant's strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

But now it was perfume that clung to Robert like perfume, and he had a girth to match his height. No doubt Arya would have bolted the minute a match to him was proposed. She was even more like Lyanna in spirit than in looks.

Ned still felt sick when he remembered the bloody sheet, and Catelyn had barely spoken to him since the wedding. He couldn't remember her being so cold since he had brought Jon home with him after the war. He hoped she could eventually forgive him this as well.

He had been tempted to brush aside the concerns of his son and the Tyrell girl. Even if Robert had seen Arya as a second Lyanna and wanted to set aside his Lannister bride for a new queen, he had wondered, wouldn't it be better than marriage to the Lannister Imp?

Ned had last seen the king nine years before during Balon Greyjoy's rebellion, when the stag and the direwolf had joined to end the pretensions of the self-proclaimed King of the Iron Islands. Since the night they had stood side by side in Greyjoy's fallen stronghold, where Robert had accepted the rebel lord's surrender and Ned had taken his son Theon as hostage and ward, the king had gained at least eight stone. A beard as course and black as iron wire covered his jaw to hide his double chin and the sag of the royal jowls, but nothing could hide his stomach or the dark circles under his eyes.

Yet Robert was Ned's king now, and not just a friend, so he said only, “Your Grace, Winterfell is yours.”

By then the others were dismounting as well, and grooms were coming forward for their mounts. Ser Barristan Selmy entered on foot, escorting a golden-haired girl and boy from the great wheelhouse, a huge double-decked carriage of oiled oak and gilded metal pulled by forty heavy draft-horses, and too wide to pass through the castle gate. It was no wonder the king's journey had lasted half a year with a monstrosity like that.

“Where is your queen?” asked Ned.

“She didn't feel up to the journey, so we left her in King's Landing. And good riddance, I say.”

Ned glanced toward the Tyrells then and saw no shock on their faces. He wondered if they had known that the queen remained behind. They had neglected to pass along that information if they had.

“Cat!” the King roared, embracing her like a long lost sister, bringing Ned's attention back to the formal greetings. The children were lined up next to Catelyn and introduced.

Robb, and his betrothed, Margaery. The king punched Robb's shoulder and declared him a 'fine young man'. Then he looked Margaery up and down carefully before embracing her like he had Catelyn.

“Betrothed?” he asked, looking into her face.

“Nearly, your Grace, we are just making the final arrangements.” Margaery reached out to grasp Robb's hand, looking at him with an intimate smile on her face.

“And this is Sansa.” Ned said, to hurry Robert along. The king looked Sansa up and down even more closely than he had Margaery.

“Lovely, girl.” The king seemed disappointed. “She takes after her mother,” he commented as he leaned over to kiss Sansa's hand.

Prince Joffery was following in his father's footsteps, leering at Margaery and kissing her hand just as the king was kissing Sansa's. Moving over in front of Sansa, he smiled at her and she blushed deeply.

“And are you betrothed too?” he asked.

Sansa's face fell, “I am, your Grace.”

“That's too bad.” commented Joffery as he looked her over again. It was all Ned could do not to push the boy away from his daughter. He silently thanked the gods, and Tyrion Lannister that she was already spoken for.

The king greeted Bran and tested his muscle. “I'm going to be a knight, I want to be in the Kingsguard someday,” Bran was saying.

“Well, Ser Barristan is getting a little old, perhaps you can take his place once you are grown,” the King teased.

“And you might remember Theon Greyjoy.”

“This lad can't be Greyjoy, why he is a man grown!” exclaimed the King.

“It's been nine years, your Grace, boys do turn into men as they years go by.”

The King shook his head. “Ah, and these two I recognize. Loras and Garlan Tyrell. Renly told me to give you his regards,” the King said patting Loras' shoulder.

“But there should be more. Didn't you and Cat have at least half a dozen children by now?”

“Only five, your Grace. My other daughter is recently married and is traveling with our youngest son to see him fostered with one of my bannermen.”

“I'm sorry to have missed them.” The king did look disappointed for a moment, but it passed quickly as his two younger children caught up to the receiving line. “Ah, and this is my beautiful daughter, Myrcella, she got all of her mother's good looks, but none of her temperament, thank the gods. And my youngest, Tommen.”

Myrcella and Tommen greeted Ned and his family. He noticed Myrcella's eyes lit up a little when Robb, following the King's example, kissed her hand, and dimmed again as she greeted Margaery. Tommen, shy and plump, blushed as he kissed each of the women's hands, and blushed even more when he offered Robb a smile.

As soon as the formal greetings were done the king demanded, “Take me down to your crypts, Eddard, I would pay my respects.”

Ned loved him for that, for remembering her still after all these years, at the same time he was relieved that Arya was safely on her way to Bear Island with her new husband. He called for a lantern. No other words were needed.

They went down to the crypts together, Ned and this king he scarcely recognized. The winding stone steps were narrow. Ned went first with the lantern. “I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell,” Robert complained as they descended. “In the South, the way they talk about my Seven Kingdoms, a man forgets that your part is as big as the other six combined.”

“I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?”

Robert snorted. “Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?”

“Likely they were too shy to come out,” Ned jested. He could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. “Kings are a rare sight in the North.”

Robert snorted again. “More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned!” the king put one hand on the wall to steady himself as they descended.

“Late summer snows are common enough,” Ned said. “I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild.”

“The Others take your mild snows,” Robert swore. “What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think.”

“The winters are hard,” Ned admitted. “But the Starks will endure. We always have.”

“And that little Tyrell Rose your boy has his eye on, how will she fare, come winter?” Robert asked, laughing. “Roses die off in the winter, you know.”

Ned held his tongue, wondering who the king would to see rule Winterfell at his side, but not asking for fear of the answer.

“You need to come south,” Robert told him. “You need a taste of summer before it flees. In Highgarden there are fields of golden roses that stretch as far as the eye can see. The fruits are so ripe they explode in your mouth – melons, peaches, fireplums, you've never tasted such sweetness. You'll see, I brought you some. Even at Storm's End, with that good wind off the bay, the days are so hot you can barely move. And you ought to see the towns, Ned! Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you can get drunk just breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich.”

He laughed and slapped his own ample stomach a thump. “And the girls, Ned!” he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. “I swear, women lose all modesty in the heat. They swim naked in the river, right beneath the castle. Even in the streets, it's too damn hot for wool or fur, so they go around in these short gowns, silk if they have the silver and cotton if not, but it's all the same when they start sweating and the cloth sticks to their skin, they might as well be naked.” The king laughed happily.

Ned found himself happier with his decision to send Arya away with each passing word once the king started talking about the girls. Glad too that it was cool enough that Sansa and Margaery could dress modestly without any visible sweating.

Margaery had sat in his solar with Robb the evening he discovered his children at their sword play in the godswood. She whispered her confession about a plot her brother Loras made with Renly to try and get Robert to see her as another Lyanna.

At first he dismissed it, there was barely a passing resemblance between the Tyrell girl and his late sister. But listening to Robert talk about these women in King's Landing he wondered if it would matter to the King. The girls were lovely and young, perhaps that was all it would take for Robert to forget his vows and pursue them.

Robert was breathing heavily by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, his face red in the lantern light as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt.

“Your Grace,” Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semi-circle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchers that contained their mortal remains. “She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon.”

He led the way between the pillars and Robert followed wordlessly, shivering in the subterranean chill. It was always cold down here. Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of House Stark. The Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed the tombs. In long rows they sat, blind eyes staring out into eternal darkness, while great stone direwolves curled around their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by.

By ancient custom an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been Lord of Winterfell, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts. The oldest had long ago rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone. Ned wondered if that meant those ghosts were free to roam the castle now. He hoped not. The first Lords of Winterfell had been men hard as the land they ruled. In the centuries before the Dragonlords came over the sea, they had sworn allegiance to no man, styling themselves the Kings in the North.

Ned stopped at the last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into the darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for him and his children. Ned did not like to think on that. “Here,” he told his king.

Robert nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head.

There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him. In two smaller sepulchers on either side were his children.

Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule.

Ned had been waiting for Brandon in Riverrun and when they received the raven bearing the news of his brother's death, Lord Hoster Tully had demanded Ned wed his daughter in his brother's place. Catelyn, Winterfell, it was all supposed to be Brandon's.

Lyanna had only been sixteen, a child-woman of surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart. Robert claimed to have loved her even more. She was to have been his bride.

“She was more beautiful than that,” the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life.

In truth, the stonemason had captured her likeness well. Robert must have forgotten her in the years since she died, built up an image that was more than the woman had been. In truth, they had spent very little time together in life. Robert knew Lyanna through the stories Ned told, and letters their father had forced Lyanna to write, probably with as much reluctance as Arya showed toward her needlework.

He saw her only briefly at the tourney at Harenhall, and Lyanna did her best to avoid him even there.

“Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?” His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. “She deserved more than darkness...”

“She was a Stark of Winterfell,” Ned said quietly. “This is her place.”

“She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean.”

Truly, the plot Margaery had disclosed seemed more likely with each passing moment as the king misremembered his sister and talked instead of a woman that Ned had never known. And yet he wondered if any living woman could rival the King's memory of a girl who had never been.

“I was with her when she died,” Ned reminded the king. “She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father.” He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. “I bring her flowers when I can,” he said. “Lyanna was … fond of flowers.”

The king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. “I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her.”

“You did,” Ned reminded him.

“Only once,” Robert said bitterly.

They had come together at the ford of the Trident while the battle crashed around them, Robert with his warhammer and his great antlered helm, the Targaryen prince armored all in black. On his breastplate was the three-headed dragon of his House, wrought all in rubies that flashed like fire in the sunlight. The waters of the Trident ran red around the hooves of their destriers as they circled and clashed, again and again, until at last a crushing blow from Robert's hammer stove in the dragon and the chest beneath it. When Ned had finally come to the scene, Rhaegar lay dead in the stream, while men of both armies scrabbled in the swirling waters for rubies knocked free of his armor.

“In my dreams, I kill him every night,” Robert admitted. “A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves.”

There was nothing Ned could say to that. He felt some of the same anger at the sight of the bloody sheet the morning after Arya's wedding. And yet, the anger had faded when he saw her smiling and laughing in the short days between then and her departure. In fifteen years, Robert's anger had not faded. Perhaps he would feel the same if Arya lay her beside her aunt instead of looking forward to her new life as Tyrion's squire.

After a quiet, he said, “We should return, Your Grace. You have a wife now,” Ned reminded him.

“The Others take my wife, these months on the road away from her have been the best of time of our entire marriage.” Robert muttered sourly, but he started back the way they had come, his footsteps falling heavily. “And if I hear 'Your Grace' once more, I'll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that.”

“I had not forgotten,” Ned replied quietly. When the king did not answer, he said, “Tell me about Jon.”

Robert shook his head. “I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on my son's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like a fire in his gut. It burned right through him.” He paused beside a pillar, before a tomb of a long-dead Stark. “I loved that old man.”

“We both did.” Ned paused a moment. “Is there any chance he was poisoned?”

“Who would poison Jon? Everyone loved him. No. Grand Maester Pycelle cared for him from the time he first showed signs of illness and examined the body after he died. He said there were no signs of anything unnatural.”

Ned looked thoughtful. Lysa's letter had indicated that he had been poisoned, and suggested the Lannister's were responsible. If he remembered correctly, the old Grand Maester was an appointment made when Tywin Lannister was hand to King Aerys. And yet, if there was no ill-feeling between Jon and the Lannisers, perhaps Lysa was jumping at shadows. She still had not answered Catelyn's query about fostering Bran in the Eyrie. Her only word was one coded letter claiming that her husband had been murdered.

“Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her greif?” Ned asked, hoping for more clues.

Robert's mouth gave a bitter twist. “Not well, in truth,” he admitted. “I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie.”

Ned knew that already.

“Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by women?”

Ned would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to Lord Tywin, but Ned held his peace. It was likely that Arya would be sharing her home with Lord Tywin in the near future. It would be different though, she would be his good-daughter, not his ward. And Tyrion would be there to protect her. Ned's regrets over the marriage returned like a sword in his gut.

“The wife has lost the husband,” he said carefully. “Perhaps the mother feared to lose the son, the boy is very young.” And not as capable of resisting Tywin's influence as Arya was. In fact, Ned tried to reassure himself, one might almost feel sorry for Tywin Lannister if ever tried to impose his will on Arya.

“Six, and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie, gods have mercy,” the kind swore. “Lord Tywin has never taken a ward before. Lysa ought to have been honored. The Lannisters are a great and noble House. She refused to even hear of it.”

 _She thought the Lannisters had poisoned her husband._ Ned thought. It's no wonder she doesn't want her son to foster with them. Or did they offer to foster the boy before her husband died? Maybe she suspected them because she did not want to lose her boy. Perhaps that was why she did not answer Catelyn about Bran. There was an offer to foster both boys at either place. Maybe Lysa thought they were trying to take her boy away just like the Lannister's had?

“Then she left in the dead of night, without so much as a by-your-leave. Cersei was furious.” He sighed deeply. “The boy is my namesake, did you know that? Robert Aryn. I am sworn to protect him. How can I do that if his mother steals him away?”

“i will take him as ward, if you wish,” Ned said. “Lysa should consent to that. She and Catelyn were close as girls, and she would be welcome here as well.” Although, the offer had been made and ignored, they could offer again once Lysa had a chance to overcome her grief.

“A generous offer, my friend,” the king said, “but too late. Lord Tywin has already given his consent. Fostering the boy elsewhere would be a grievous affront to him.”

“I have more concern for my nephew's welfare than I do for Lannister pride,” Ned declared.

“That is because you do not sleep with a Lannister.” Robert laughed, the sound rattling among the tombs and bouncing from the vaulted ceiling. His smile was a flash of white teeth in the thicket of his huge black beard.

 _But my daughter does_ , Ned thought sourly. In truth, he felt little of the same animosity toward Tyrion as the rest of his family. After six months he had come to know the little man well enough, and respect him. Listening to the king speak of his wife and her family gave him doubts about his own judgement concerning Tyrion. And there was the bloody sheet...gods, there had been so much blood. Cat hadn't... but she had been older. He wasn't going to think about that.

“Ah, Ned,” the king brought him back to the present, “you are still too serious.” He put a massive arm around Ned's shoulders. “I had planned to wait a few days to speak to you, but I see now there's not need for it. Come, walk with me.”

They started back down between the pillars. Blind stone eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. The king kept his arm around Ned's shoulder. “You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long.”

Ned had his suspicions. There had been much talk with Catelyn, Tryion, and even Margaery about what the king's visit might mean. Everyone seemed to agree there could only be one reason that the king was visiting now. Ned would not speak of it now. Instead, he suggested, “For the joy of my company, surely.”

“And there is the Wall. You need to see it, Your Grace, to walk along it's battlements and talk to the men who man it. The Night's Watch is a shadow of what it once was. Benjen says...”

“No doubt I will hear what your bother says soon enough,” Robert said. “The Wall has stood for what, eight thousand years? It can keep a few days more. I have more pressing concerns. These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Aryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace.”

“His son...” Ned began.

“His son will succeed to the Eyrie and all it's incomes,” Robert said brusquely. “No more.”

That took Ned by surprise. He stopped, startled, and turned to look at his king. The words came unbidden. “The Aryns have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain.”

“Perhaps when he comes of age, the honor can be restored to him,” Robert said. “I have this year to think of, and next. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, Ned.”

“In peace, the title is only an honor. Let the boy keep it. For his father's sake if not his own. Surely you owe Jon that much for his service.”

The king was not pleased. He took his arm from around Ned's shoulders. “Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege lord. I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that. But the son is not the father. A mere boy cannot hold the east.” Then his tone softened. “Enough of this. There is a more important office to discuss, and I would not argue with you.” Robert grasped Ned by the elbow. “I have need of you, Ned.”

“I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always.” They were words he had to say, and so he said them, apprehensive about what might come next.

Robert scarcely seemed to hear him. “Those years we spent in the Eyrie... gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. I want you down in King's Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody.” Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment as melancholy as a Stark. “I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people... there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something, money or land or justice. The lies they tell... and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Half of them don't dare tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident. Ah, no, not truly, but...”

“I understand,” Ned said softly, looking past the king to the dead Stark sitting behind him, Cregan Stark.

Robert looked at him. “I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend.” He smiled. “Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King.”

Ned dropped to one knee. The offer did not surprise him; what other reason could Robert have for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke with the king's voice, commanded the king's armies, drafted the king's laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense the king's justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

It was the last thing in the world he wanted. Ned looked at his ancestor again. Cregan Stark had been hand of the king for a day. One day, then returned North. Ned prayed that his term would be short and that he would return home soon as well.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I am not worthy of the honor.”

Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. “if I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave.” He slapped his gut and grinned. “You know the saying, about the king and his Hand?”

Ned knew the saying. “What the king dreams,” he said, “the Hand builds.”

“I bedded a fishmaid once who told me the lowborn have a choicer way to put it. The king eats, they say, and the Hand takes the shit.” He threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes.

Finally the laughter dwindled and stopped. Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised. “Damn it, Ned,” the king complained. “You might at least humor me with a smile.”

“They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death,” Ned said evenly. “Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor.”

“Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again.” the king promised. “You helped me win this damnable throne, now help me hold it. We were meant to rule together. If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection.

“Tell me Ned. This betrothal of your daughter's, is it truly a betrothal or just the beginnings of a negotiation? I have a son, you know. We could join our houses through them, as Lyanna and I might once have done.”

“It's final, Your Grace, there is an escort already on the way to Winterfell.” Ned felt his the edge of his conscience at the exaggeration. The response from Dorne promised an escort when Sansa was ready to travel, it was unlikely anyone was on the way yet.

“Ah, that is too bad. But your son, his is not final?”

“Not yet, but we are expecting word back from Highgarden any day.”

“Ah, that is too bad. Your younger boys then? Perhaps my daughter...”

“Rickon, the youngest is already promised. And Bran would rather serve in your Kingsguard.”

“Hmp. Well, the boy is young, and so is my daughter. Perhaps in a year or two he may find the charms of women are more interesting then a sword and a white cloak. Think on it Ned.”

“I will, Your Grace.”

The king smiled. “Now stand up and say yes, curse you.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace,” Ned answered. He hesitated. “These honors are all so unexpected. May have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife...”

“Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must.” The king reached down, clasped Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet. “Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men.”

For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around them, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew. And winter was coming.

 


	26. Bear Island (Lyanna)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough chapter to write since there is so little information about the ladies of Bear Island. I found a couple good pictures to use as inspiration for the Mormont women and Mormont Keep - I've posted them on my blog if anyone is interested: http://www.karenfreemansmith.com/blog/tag/northern-brides/

 

“You aren't married.” Lyanna stood her ground firmly, looking at her mother and each of her older sisters in the eye. “Why should I marry when none of you have?”

Lyanna felt a moment of pride as her sisters squirmed in their places. She was almost seven and had already learned to use the truth to make adults listen to her. Her secret was to never flinch or look away, whoever looked away first always lost.

Except this time they were not backing down in spite of their unease.

“Your sisters will marry if and when the right opportunity presents itself. Not one of them has received an offer of betrothal from a Stark.” Lyanna's mother Maege was the only one able to stand firm against Lyanna. She seethed inside, but did her best not to let her feelings show on her face.

The Starks are coming to visit. Only partially true, the new Lady Lannister and her husband the Imp, and a bastard named Snow were escorting her betrothed to Bear Island. The youngest Stark was third in line for Winterfell and half her age. It did not seem to Lyanna that it was a good match at all.

“Don't you think the little Stark is too young for a betrothal?” asked Lyanna in her most reasonable tone.

“He is young, but some children are betrothed while still in the womb. We owe house Stark our loyalty. Your cousin disgraced our house not five years past, and the Stark are offering us one of their own children. House Mormont cannot refuse this honor now.” Maege Mormont explained to her strong-willed daughter.

“So I am to be sold to try and regain the honor my cousin lost over his Southern Bride?”

In truth, Lyanna did not remember her cousin. He had run from Westeros and the King's Justice when she was still just a baby, about the age of this Stark boy in fact. They had lived in shame since then. She understood why her mother wanted to strengthen ties with House Stark. She did not understand why she was selected as the future bride.

“There are other Stark sons, older sons. Why can one of my elder sisters not marry one of them?”

“I believe they are already promised.”

“To other Southerners?” Lyanna demanded pointedly. “Why are we accepting third place to Southerners?”

“It isn't third place...” Jorelle offered.

“We have been disgraced,” her mother bit out, looking more like the bear that was the sigil of their house with each passing statement. “do you really think the Starks would offer us their heir?”

“They should. We did not disgrace our house. Should we be held accountable for what her cousin, Jorah did?”

“He brought this dishonor on our whole family and you are the key to removing that taint. Do you refuse the call to serve your family?”

Lyanna struggled with that question. She wanted to serve her family, of course. She was raised to believe strongly in family and honor. She waned nothing more than to serve her family. Entering into a marriage contract was not the kind of service she had in mind. Like most women on Bear Island she was raised to fight. Until this betrothal was mentioned she had always considered fighting to protect her family was how she would serve them, like her mother and sisters did. She was not a delicate lady who needed a husband to take care of her.

“I will answer the call.” Lyanna replied sullenly and then left the hall to find some privacy in her own room. Their guests would arrive soon and she must be ready to face her future husband when they did.

Lyanna stood, grim and unsmiling, as she watched the party from Winterfell enter Mormont Keep. Her mother and sisters stood around her at the top of the hall. The wall behind them was decorated with a giant bearskin and the hall was lit with a hundred candles.

The guests filtered in, quickly filling the hall.

The important guests made their way to the front of the hall where the little Lannister did the presentations.

“This is my lady wife, Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

_ Lannister. _ Thought Lyanna.  _ If she is your wife that should be Lannister _ . And a fine Southern lady from the looks of it. She was dirty and worn from travel, but she wore skirts and had her hair braided at one point not so long ago. She was not of interest to Lyanna.

“This is Lord Stark's natural son, Jon Snow.”

Snow bowed and kissed Maege's hand. Lyanna was annoyed to see her mother blush like a young girl. “You have your father's look,” she told him.

From his smile, Lyanna thought the bastard must be easily flattered. He looked like a northerner, but his courtly manners and vulnerability to flattery told her that his mother was probably just as Southern as the Lady Tully at Winterfell.

Her cousin had taken a Southern woman as wife and she had ruined him. He gave up his honor for her, but before that he had become a slaver just to try to keep her happy. She was too young to remember the woman herself, but she had heard the stories from her sisters all her life about the beautiful young flower who could never be pleased.

“And this,” Tyrion announced with flair, “is Rickon Stark.”

Lyanna sighed and used all the willpower she could muster not to roll her eyes. She was not impressed. The boy was barely weened. She kept her face still and bobbed her head quickly in acknowledgement.

When the greetings were over and the guests were seated and she and her sisters brought out the feast.

“They don't have servants?” Lyanna overheard Arya whisper to the Imp.

“Apparently not, my lady, not all families do. I would think it's impolite to comment on it.”

Arya rolled her eyes and grabbed a roll from one of the serving dishes. The bastard slapped her wrist and she dropped it.

“I'm hungry,” Lyanna's future husband said loudly.

“And so we shall eat, my Lord.” Maege proclaimed as she sat down at the head of the table, with the Lannister at her right hand. Her daughters followed in order of age, each of Lyanna's older sisters sitting across from one of the honored guests. Lyanna seated herself last, at the foot of the table across from her mother, and next to the young lordling she was supposed to marry.

She looked him over. He was pretty for a boy, prettier than her probably. And soft like she would expect of a chid of the Southern Lady that Lord Stark had married. Well, she always expected to protect herself without the help of a man. And it was clear this little boy would be all but useless. With luck, she could train him to stay out of her way at least.

Just then Lyanna heard a low growling from the entrance to the longhall. She turned to see three large wolves pacing up the center of the longhall toward their table.

“I'm sorry milords, miladys, I couldn't keep them out,” one of the Stark guards was babbling.

Lyanna sat still and eyed the wolves. Three of them. And three Stark children. How interesting.

The wolves stopped, one by each of the guests with Stark blood and then settled by their feet under the table.

“Your wolves are quite large,” observed Dacey.

“Direwolves,” the bastard corrected.

_ Disrepectful _ , thought Lyanna. She decided she liked him best of all the Starks.

“Can I pet your wolf?” Lyanna asked Rickon.

“His name is Shaggydog!” Rickon proclaimed. Snow smiled at that, and Arya rolled her eyes.

“And what is your wolf called, Lady Lannister?” Lyanna asked in an icy tone.

“Nymeria,” Arya answered shortly. “And I'm not a lady!”

The Mormont sisters laughed, and their mother smiled. Lyanna just glared at Arya and answered. “You look like a fine Southern Lady to me.”

Shaggydog lifted his head and nuzzled Lyanna's thigh. She took that as permission to pet him. The wolf's fur was rough and dirty. She could feel the wild energy in the beast and looked at Rickon again, reconsidering her opinion. Perhaps he would not grow up as useless as she thought.

There was a tradition in the Mormont family that their ancestors had been wargs. Alysanne claimed she warged into a bear and mated with a wild bear to get her two babies. Lyanna did not believe her story, but she was not as skeptical about the mythology of Bear Island.

“Can you warg into your wolves?” asked Alysanne.

Tyrion laughed. Arya looked thoughtful. Snow looked away blushing. Rickon just looked confused.

“Mormont women can turn into bears when they want.” Alysanne continued, bragging.

“That's not how it works,” Arya blurted, and then looked around like she was trying to see who just said that. Jon Snow glared at her.

“Then you are a warg,” Alysanne pressed. She was seated directly across from Arya, smiling at her as if they had some kind of special bond.

“That's enough, Alysanne.” Maege broke in. “Our guests must be tired after their long journey. They don't need to deal with your nonsense.”

Tyrion Lannister cleared his throat. “I've always found ancient tales from the noble families fascinating.”

Lyanna turned her attention to the dwarf. She doubted that he would have been allowed to live if he had been born in the North. What strange people these Southerners were, not only to keep the baby and feed it, but also to make him the heir to their family home. Or perhaps she had misunderstood that part, and Arya truly was not going to be the Lady of Casterly Rock some day.

“All the first men were wargs.” Lyra declared.

Tyrion laughed. “My family as little of the blood of the first men, but there is surely a drop or two. Do you think we may have been wargs as well?”

Lyra and Jorelle both nodded, but Lyanna would not stand this false pretense. “You think you could warg into a lion, my Lord?”

At that Tyrion let out a belly laugh. “Oh, not me... I'm only a little lion!”

“We have some barn cats,” offered Jorelle. “Perhaps you could warg with one of them.

Jorelle could be such a baby, even if she was three years older than Lyanna.

The feast went on like that with small talk and jokes relaxing everyone around her. Lyanna was relieved when one of the women came to tell Alysanne that her little bears were hungry too. She left to feed them, and then the others began making their excuses to find a place to bed down for the night.

The next morning Lyanna's sisters woke her early so they could prepare another meal for their guests. Lyanna was not overly fond of cooking and hoped their guests would not linger long at Mormont Keep.

They were supposed to decide whether her betrothed would stay on Bear Island or she would return with him to Winterfell. Becoming a ward at Winterfell was ridiculous. She was not marrying the heir after all. There was no need for her to leave Bear Island. Besides, if she was in Winterfell, it would appear that the Starks had taken her hostage for her family's good behavior.

That might have been the point of offering the match.

But if the Starks allowed one of their children to foster on Bear Island it would be a clear sign to the North that the Mormonts were not being held accountable for her cousin's misdeeds. That was obviously the more desirable outcome.

Her mother and sisters discussed these things while preparing the meal. Lyanna just listened. She would have to go along with whatever decision was made, and there was no point in saying anything unless she could offer a persuasive argument.

The conversation continued over breakfast. The Lannister Imp was the one asking the most questions. What would Rickon's role on Bear Island be if he were to stay? He had even asked her how she felt about wearing dresses and doing needlework.

Lyanna replied that she did what work was needed regardless of her personal feelings toward the activity, thinking more about preparing breakfast than needlework. And that her personal attire would suit that activity whether it was needlework or sword play.

Arya had joined the conversation then, asking Lyanna if she had ever done any training with a sword. Lyanna cooly replied that all Mormont women were trained to fight with any weapon at hand.

“Would you like to spar with me?” Arya asked with a bright smile.

“Arya...” the Imp tried to hush her.

“I would not want to hurt my lady.” Lyanna replied cooly, sizing up the older girl and seeing no threat.

“You wouldn't hurt me, I'm very good with a sword. I can even disarm my brother Bran, who is about your age.”

“And you think I should be concerned about you because you can take a sword away from a little boy?” Lyanna retorted. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Lyanna...” this time it was her mother who tried to intervene.

“No. Have you?” Arya shot back.

“I have.” Lyanna said, deadly serious. It was clear the other girl did not believe her.

“That's enough, Lyanna. This is not a conversation we want to have over our meal,” her mother warned.

Lyanna hushed, and fumed. She wanted to show that soft little slip of a Lannister lady that she should respect the she-bears.

After the meal was cleared away, Lyanna sought out the Lannister girl. She found her with her bastard brother playing at swords. They had wooden practice swords and he was showing her how to defend herself.

“You call that a sword?” Lyanna called out as a greeting.

“It's a practice sword.” Snow answered.

“I know what it is. I heard that's how you Southerner's learn to fight. Up here we use real steel.”

Arya reached for the small sword she always wore, but her brother stopped her.

“Real steel is for real fighting. We are only practicing and don't want to hurt anyone unnecessarily. Would you like to practice with us?” Snow offered. Lyanna thought he was talking to her like she was a child.

“Have you ever killed a man?” Lyanna asked Snow.

“No,” he admitted.

“Then why do you talk to me as if I was a child?”

He actually laughed at her then. “You are a child.”

Lyanna fumed. She marched towards Jon Snow and grabbed the wooden toy from his hand. Then she turned on Arya and attacked her with all the ferocity of a cornered bear combined with the frustration she had been feeling at being forced into this unwanted marriage pact.

Arya barely got her sword up in time to ward off the first blow.

Lyanna had her backing around the clearing with a satisfying look of surprise on her face. And the surprise was quickly turning into respect and possibly even a little fear. That was what Lyanna wanted from the other girl.

She pushed her attack and began studying the other girl's defense. Lyanna could hear voices shouting at them, but tuned them out. A crowd was gathering, but she didn't care. Let them all see her put this girl in the dirt.

Arya did have some skill with the blade, but Lyanna was better. She knew it and toyed with Arya until the crowd was sufficiently large, and then she renewed her attack in earnest. She jumped forward and swung low, telegraphing every move as loudly she could.

Arya saw her intentions and tried to block the obvious blow, but at the last moment Lyanna changed her direction and hit Arya's wrist so hard that the other girl dropped her sword. Then she advanced, beating the defenseless girl around the shoulders and on her thighs.

Finally, she backed the girl into a log and she tripped.

Arya sat hard on the ground, looking up at Lyanna. Lyanna shoved the wooden sword right toward Arya's heart.

“If this was a real sword, you would be dead.” Lyanna announced.

“And that is why we practice with wooden swords, my Lady.” Tyrion Lannister chided her as he waddled over to help Arya up.

“Are you hurt?” he asked his wife.

“A little,” Arya admitted, breathing hard and not taking her eyes off of Lyanna.

“How did you learn to do that?” Arya asked Lyanna in amazement.

“My sisters taught me,” replied Lyanna.

“All of the women on Bear Island are warriors,” her mother broke in, glaring at her youngest daughter before checking Arya to see if she had any injuries beyond bruises that needed tending.

“Even Alysanne's daughter has a toy sword,” the mother bear continued.

“But I thought she was still nursing,” Arya objected.

“She is. And when she's old enough to walk she will quit playing with a toy and learn to fight in earnest.”

“Why?” Arya asked, her voice filled with awe. Lyanna was grinning now. This was what she hoped for from the Stark girl. Respect and awe. The Mormonts were not to be looked down on.

“Wildings, dear, they raid us constantly. And our men are often away, so we must protect ourselves.”

“Was that the man you killed? A wilding...” Arya asked Lyanna, looking at her with a new-found respect.

Lyanna nodded. “I was five, and Alysanne's son was newly born. One of the wildings was about to take him, but he didn't see me, or maybe he didn't think I was a threat. I stabbed him in the back with a dagger while he leaned over the crib.”

“Can you teach me?” Arya asked.

The Mormont women all shared a laugh before Dacey answered. “What we know comes from a lifetime of training, girl, we could train you if it was you who fostered here instead of your brother, but it would take you years to learn.”

Lyanna could see the jealousy in Arya's eyes. The girl might lack training, but she did have spirit. And she had not cried or even yielded to Lyanna when she attacked.

“Did you train at Winterfell?” Lyanna asked.

“A little, but we had to do it in secret. My parents did not want me to learn to fight. They wanted me to learn to do needlework and be a proper lady.”

“And now you are.” Lyanna pronounced. “But I can see that you also have a warrior's spirit inside. It's too bad that your lady mother would not let you learn both.”

“I'm learning now,” Arya told her. “I married Tyrion because he promised to let me learn to fight with a sword. He's sent to Braavos for a master-at-arms to teach me.”

“Braavos?” Lyanna asked.

The others were leaving now that the show was over and the two girls began to exchange stories. Arya explained that her small sword was actually a Braavosi blade, and Lyanna learned how limiting a life in Winterfell could be and worried that she would be sent there to foster and forced to lay down her sword for a needle.

“Jon named my sword 'Needle' because he knew how much I hated needlework.” Arya confided.

“I don't want to leave my home. Or to be married. None of my sisters are married.”

“Not even Alysanne? Did her husband die?”

“She never had a husband. When she started showing with her first babe she came up with this story about warging into a bear and claims both her children were fathered by bears.”

“They are bastards then?”

“No.” Lyanna shook her head, “They are Mormonts the same as any of us.”

“How can that be without a father?” Arya seemed truly puzzled. “We don't know who Jon's mother is, so he is a Snow. But if children took their mother's name then wouldn't the rest of us be Tullys instead of Starks?”

“My mother was the same. We do not know who are father was, or even if we have the same father. But we are still Mormonts.” Lyanna shrugged. It did not matter to her if someone was a bastard or not. Those were Southern concerns. She had to understand them in order to navigate the politics of various houses. She did not have to agree with them.

“Would you train Rickon to fight if he stays here?” Arya asked.

“Of course. Our women are not warriors because our men are not trained. Our men are trained better than the men of any other house. They learn from both mother and father and from the time they are in the cradle. You told me yourself, you can disarm your brother who is my age. I must be better than him, but I would not disarm Alysanne's boy as easily as I did you. He is the same age as Rickon.”

“Rickon has not even started training with a sword yet. Do you think he could survive here? Would he ever be able to catch up in the training he lacks?”

Lyanna reflected that may be why her mother was so upset that she attacked Arya, even though she had clearly been invited to do so. Lyanna looked into Arya's face then, afraid the other girl would consider Bear Island too dangerous to leave her little brother. She didn't think it was concern for Rickon that she in Arya when she asked if it was too late to start training.

“He will be slow for a year or two, but eventually he should be just as good as other boys and girls his age. Someday he may even be better if he has a talent and applies himself. I hope he will, if I am to marry him.”

Arya looked relieved.

“I will tell Tyrion that Rickon should stay here. He should get the best training possible. It's not likely that he would ever be Lord of Winterfell. My oldest brother Robb is about to be betrothed as well, so he will have his own children soon. But I think Rickon is a fierce little boy and could be a great warrior someday.”

Arya paused and looked thoughtful.

“I don't think you would like life at Winterfell that much. You would not have to get up early and cook breakfast, or wait on guests, we have servants who do that. But you would be expected to learn to be a lady like my mother. If you aren't going to be Lady of Winterfell eventually, then I don't see why you should have to do that.”

Lyanna smiled and nodded. “My thoughts exactly.” As much as she disliked some of the work they did, she felt having servants would make her soft. Like her cousin's southern bride had been. And she would cook a thousand meals before she let herself become that.

The Stark party stayed at Mormont Keep for a week. Lyanna found that she grew in her appreciation for each of them, even the Imp of Lannister, who while still a dwarf seemed to be a satisfactory husband for Arya. He was smart too. In the end, he was the one who had written the message and sent a raven to Winterfell that it would be in everyone's best interest for Rickon to remain on Bear Island to foster with the Mormonts until he was old enough to marry Lyanna.

One day, Tyrion brought the barn cat to Lyanna.

“I've finally caught the beast,” Tyrion told her. “Now tell me how to do this warging trick of yours.”

“That was Jorelle's idea, not mine.” Lyanna dismissed him.

“I think this marriage is not your idea either.” Tyrion observed.

“No. But it is my duty. I will do what is required for the sake of my family.”

“I have heard of another girl named Lyanna that may have said the same thing once.” The Imp was looking at her closely, waiting for a reply.

Lyanna sighed, annoyed. “My namesake started a war. I am aware of the history. I do not intend to repeat it. War is not a game I long to play.”

“Really? You seemed quite anxious the first day you spared with Arya.”

“That was not a war. That was training.” Lyanna replied cooly.

“It was more than training, my Lady.” Tyrion insisted. “My wife still wears the bruises from your personal vendetta. You will be a Stark yourself before you know it. You should consider making peace with them.”

Lyanna closed her moth and pulled her chin in. She gave Tyrion Lannister her best 'don't mess with me' look. “I will not fail in my duty,” she promised.

“Good,” he said, handing her the cat, which immediately clawed it's way out of her arms and bolted.

The details of the betrothal and the fostering were ironed out between the two houses. It was agreed that Rickon would foster on Bear Island and receive his training there as he was likely to end up living on Bear Island with his bride once they were married. It was also agreed that Lyanna would spend some time each year at Winterfell with Rickon, for his mother's sake. Lyanna only agreed once there was a clear understanding that the Mormont women were all warriors from a young age and they would be allowed to practice their skills in Winterfell's training yard while they were there.

On the day of their departure, Arya knelt by Rickon and hugged him tightly, tears in her eyes. “Be good,” she whispered.

The little boy hugged her back and nodded.

They all said their farewells, much like they had said their greetings, except that all of the she-bears gave Tyrion Lannister a kiss on the cheek leaving him extremely flustered as they departed. He actually ran into the side of his horse when he tried to mount, even though no one had seen him drinking that morning.

Lyanna watched more than one of her sisters boldly kiss Jon Snow right on the lips. She surmised that he may have been asked to play the part of 'bear' more than once in the last week, but from the way he blushed, he must have preferred to remain a wolf. That was too bad. Another niece or nephew would not have been unwelcome, and she hated to see the disappointed looks Alysanne and Lyra wore.

Lyanna, on the other hand, admonished Jon Snow to make sure the watch did a better job of keeping the wildings on their own side of the wall. "Remember your brother is here now, and he has not learned to defend himself yet."

 

 

 


	27. Winterfell (Joffery)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * WARNING * This is a Joffery chapter and the boy is disturbing. Nothing in particular happens, but his thoughts about women are about as far from P/C as it's possible to get. Unless you consider the advice his father gives him...

So this was Winterfell. It was dull and grey. Like the weather in the north, foggy mornings and overcast afternoons. His father had still insisted on having him ride at his side every other day, even though there was nothing of interest to see.

As far as he was concerned the seven kingdoms would be better off as six.

There were seven gods though, so he supposed their must be seven kingdoms. If that was the case then this one must belong to the Stranger. His father had gone down to the crypts to visit the dead Stark girl his mother hated so much. He was tempted to follow them to the crypts and get a look at this woman who his father thought so highly of, but his Uncle Jaime insisted they practice with Winterfell's master of arms instead.

“Everyone else is going to their rooms to clean up for the feast.” Joffery protested.

“Oh, did the Starks give you a room in their crypts?” Jaime asked him.

Joffery glared at him. “Fine, I'll disarm you and then wash up.”

“Excellent!” the Jaime replied smiling. You would think that his uncle enjoyed being disarmed, he always showed such enthusiasm for their bouts.

Joffery paid more attention to his uncle's instructions than usual and managed to disarm him in only three tries.

“Satisfied?” he sneered at his uncle, throwing the practice sword on the ground before stomping off to find a servant to show him to his bath. It had been weeks since they last stayed in a proper inn with a bath. The north was vast and empty. Most nights they had camped on the road. Everyone was tired and smelly. It was not kingly at all.

There would be a welcoming feast this evening. Joffery commanded the servant girls who brought his water to stay and scrub his back. He told them to touch his cock as well. They did as they were told, but timidly, and they giggled and pulled back.

“You are too young, get out then.” Joffery dismissed them. Giggling. Was that any way to act when your king offered to let you touch his person? In truth, he was only a prince still, but he would be king soon enough. It was a great compliment and they only... giggled.

He was going to hate their stay in Winterfell. His father was going to make this Lord Eddard Stark his hand. There was to be a hunt, maybe two. Joffery was not sure how long it would be before they were on their way home to King's Landing again. Not soon enough. He needed something to distract himself while they were here, something to help him with the boredom.

He stroked his cock in the warm water and thought of the girls. Sansa Stark was a nice looking girl with red hair and a shy smile. He tried to imagine her squirming under him the way the ladies his father bedded did. It was no good though, she was so prim and proper. If she ever did take all those clothes off, she would probably giggle like a little girl.

Margery Tyrell was more interesting. You could see it in her eyes. She was no innocent. She did and said exactly the same things as Sansa, but she wasn't stiff about it. She was at ease and she looked like it was all just a joke. She had looked at him and smiled. It was like a joke they shared. He would like to share more with her. She would probably do more than just squirm under him.

Joffery grinned at the thought and felt his cock stiffen. Maybe, if she played her cards right, he'd give her a chance to share more than a joke.

Later, at the feast, he was paired with Sansa Stark during the procession. She was just as stiff and naive as he expected her to be. She clung to his arm and babbled breathlessly about how handsome he was. He could hardly blame her for being impressed, but she didn't need to keep saying it. Joffery rolled his eyes, then smiled at her.

“No one will notice me at all with a beauty like you by my side.”

His mother had taught him all the pretty words that girls wanted to hear. They certainly worked with Sansa. She smiled, and blushed, and whispered, “do you really think so?”

“Without a doubt, my lady.” He whispered back, keeping an eye on the couples in front of him.

They entered in order of rank, the less important nobles and younger children would enter first.

The Tyrell brothers entered first and stopped at a table just below the central dais. Joffery smirked and asked Sansa if she new the rumors about Loras Tyrell.

“No, are there rumors?” she asked, all wide-eyed.

“I've heard he's in love,” Joffery started, then noticed the disappointment in her eyes. Did she think that Loras Tyrell would ever notice her? Joffery tried to suppress a laugh, “with the King's brother.”

Joffery loved watching the shocked look on her face. Perhaps it was the first time she had ever considered that some men prefer other men? He would have liked it better if she had been more disappointed and hurt that the Tyrell brother was not interested in her specifically.

Next came Tommen with Bran Stark. Joffery smiled at the thought that his brother didn't get to walk in with a girl. He could tease him about his new love later. It was fun to tease Tommen and watch him cry. He was such a baby.

“What do you think, my lady? Would your little brother fall in love with mine?”

Sansa looked disgusted. “I think Bran will fall in love with a nice girl one of these days. Right now, he's too young to fall in love with anyone.”

Joffery smiled at her discomfort. They would be here at least a week, possibly a month or more.  His father had even mentioned visiting the Wall, which would be another month or more on the road just to get there.  If the king insisted on going to the Wall, Joffery was going to stay here in Winterfell, the same as his mother had stayed in King's Landing.

He was going to make it his personal mission to break through the Stark girl's armor and make her cry.

Next came the Stark uncle, who was in the night's watch, all dressed in black and escorting his sister, Myrcella. Myrcella looked almost as breathless with excitement as Sansa did. Maybe he should tell her that brothers of the Night's Watch weren't allowed to marry and make her cry too. He made her cry all the time. And if she didn't cry when he teased her, he would hit her until she gave him the satisfaction he craved. Once he even made her naked. He never had to lay a hand on her then. He told her how pathetic she looked and how no one would ever love her. Then he told her if she dared say anything to mother he'd stick his cock in her until she bled and cut up her brother Tommen like he did that cat. 

She avoided him after that, but Joffery didn't care. He didn't really want to soil his cock with his sister - he only liked to frighten her. It made him feel powerful. He would save his cock for Margery.

Robb Stark and his betrothed came next. Margaery Tyrell was all confidence and smiles. Joffery smiled too, watching her, wondering what it would take to make her cry and beg. It didn't matter if she was betrothed, if he commanded her, she'd have to do whatever he told her. Maybe he should make Stark watch.

And then it was his turn. He placed his hand on Sansa's and smiled at her. He could see stars replace the doubts in her eyes. Yes, she was going to be fun to get to know.

“Shall we, my lady?”

“Of course, my prince.” He could hear her excitement. She was already in love with him. He couldn't help but grin at how easily she trusted him.

They walked up to the central dais and stood behind their seats, on the opposite end of the table from Robb and Margaery.

Next came their parents. Lord Eddard Stark walked down the aisle with a frown on his face and the Kingslayer at his side.

They were followed by his father, arm in arm with Lady Stark. “She's nearly as lovely as you,” he whispered to Sansa. She blushed and looked confused for a moment before stammering out a thank you.

Everyone remained standing in their places until, his father, the King took his seat, and then the others followed, first at the high table, and then the rest of the hall.

Once everyone was seated, serving girls began bringing in the food. There were pork roasts and fish, turnips and greens, pies and pastries. The food was not bad, better than they would find at an inn, but it was no where near as good as the food he was used to at the Red Keep. As each dish was placed before him, he told Sansa what kind of delicacy they would be eating if they were in King's Landing.

Joffery was disappointed when she seemed to be very interested and asked him to tell her more instead of being offended that he did not compliment the food in front of him. He had hoped the girl would be smart enough to see the insult for what it was, but she only listened to his descriptions with interest and claimed to look forward to trying all the dishes he described. Perhaps she thought her father would bring her to King's Landing?

After a few courses, his uncle nudged him under the table and leaned over and whispered something about being a courteous guest. Joffery rolled his eyes, daring his uncle to do anything about it.

Jaime leaned over Joffery to ask, “What is your favorite dish, Lady Sansa?”

“Oh, I love lemon cakes!” Sansa replied with enthusiasm.

“Do you have those this far north?” Jaime inquired.

“Not very often, Ser.”

“That's too bad. I'll have to send a crate of lemons to Winterfell when we return to King's Landing.”

Joffery scoffed, “Why would you do that?”

“Because the lady likes them, your grace.” Jamie leaned closer, and added for Joffery's ears only, “and because it's the polite thing to do. You should try it sometime.”

The feast lasted for hours. Joffery was growing bored with no one but Sansa and his uncle to talk to. He withdrew from the conversation and observed his father instead. He was telling stories about the rebellion and laughing loudly. He frequently fondled the serving wenches when the brought out a new dish.

Joffery decided to try the same. He grabbed the girl's breast as she leaned over to place a dish in front of him. She screamed and dropped the dish in his lap.

“Look what you've done!” he exclaimed. Gravy was running down the front of his good doublet.

“I...I'm sorry milord,” stammered the girl.

“It was his fault,” the Kingslayer stood, putting himself between Joffery and the serving girl.

His father just laughed. “Like father, like son! What do you want to bet the lad will leave a bastard or two here in Winterfell?”

Lord Stark and Jaime Lannister wore twin looks of disapproval, while Lady Stark's face turned hard and icy.

“Bastards are frowned on in the North.” Lord Stark finally managed, while Jaime offered to show Joffery back to his room so that he could clean up.

The King was laughing again, “Have you forgotten you have a bastard of your own Ned? Where are you hiding him? Him and that Greyjoy hostage. Is he still your ward? I haven't seen him yet.”

Joffery tried to linger in the hall to hear about this Stark bastard, but his uncle gave him a push toward the guest chambers.

“If you want to have a woman no one will stop you, but you need to learn to be discrete.” Jaime lectured him on the way to his rooms.

“My father isn't 'discrete',” Joffery complained.

“No, he's not. But he's King.”

“I'll be King when he's dead.”

“But you are not King yet,” Jaime shook his head, “and we can hope that you will be a better King than your father when that day comes.”

“My father is a fine King. He killed Rhaegar, didn't he?”

“He did do that, but that only made him King, it did not make him good.”

Joffery shook his head and sneered at his uncle. “You... How dare you say that? I could have you executed for treason. You aren't King and you don't know anything about being a king. I should have your tongue pulled out with hot pinchers!”

“Good night, your Grace.” Jaime said, opening the door to Joffery's room. “I'll be on guard outside your door if you need anything.”

Joffery seethed as Jaime shut the door in his face. He tore off his soiled clothes and when the serving girls came with his bath water he poked and pinched them as he pleased. They weren't young girls like the ones earlier though. They were old hags. One of them actually lifted her shift and offered to let him suckle her sagging teats.

“No. Get out!”

He didn't want an old woman. He wanted... he wasn't sure what he wanted. He wanted to make his father proud. He didn't care about the rest of them. They didn't matter. None of them were kings, they didn't know what it was like. His father was a king though. If it was bastards he wanted, the Joffery wanted to give him bastards.

But not from old hags like the ones that brought his bath water. He would father his bastards on young girls, and they would thank him for the honor.

Sansa would probably thank him. She was the kind of girl who liked to say thank you for everything. And he saw the way she looked at him. He should have fondled her breast instead of that serving wench.

Joffery spent the night thinking about all the ways that a king could have a woman. He needed a wife to be his queen, of course, but how many other women could he have as king? His father had plenty, more than Joffery could count.

The next day he approached his father and asked, “Was what I did last night wrong, father?” He tried to ask as if he did not already know the answer.

“You shouldn't have done it like that, son.” His father looked embarrassed in the morning light. “You are young, and you will learn as you get older. You have to talk to them and flirt a little before you start touching.”

“Talk to them about what?”

“Oh, you tell them they are beautiful, or complement them on the stew. You say nice things until you have them smiling at you and complimenting you back. Then when you touch them you start out with a hand or an arm. If they don't protest then you might try the back or a leg. Eventually they will let you touch them anywhere you want.”

“And you can do that, and they will just let you, because you are the King.”

King Robert let out a big belly laugh and wiped his eyes. “Oh, they let me do that plenty - long before I even thought of being King.”

Joffery pouted. “I'm the Heir to the Iron Throne. Why wouldn't that serving wench let me touch her? Why did she scream and spill the dish?”

“You startled her, that's all,” the King reassured him. “Next time, try to do it the way I told you. It takes some practice. I didn't father my first bastard until I was nearly a man grown.”

“Do you really think I could father a bastard, or two, before we leave Winterfell?” Joffery asked then.

King Robert laughed again, but softer this time, “I may have had a bit too much to drink before I said that, son. The Starks are very prickly about honor. It might be better if you didn't father any bastards up here. There will be plenty of time once we get back to King's Landing. There are some whorehouses there... “

The King was smiling at the memory of some of the whorehouses.

“I'd like to get a bastard on that girl, Sansa. And one on that other girl, Margaery as well. I only need to talk to them, you say?”

“No,” the King seemed at a loss for words. “No, those aren't the kind of women who will give you bastards. If you got a child on either of those girls you'd have to marry them. Best to leave the noble maidens alone. The married ones, well, if you get a child on a married noble lady she can tell her husband it's his."

"I made that mistake once. There was a girl at my brother's wedding. Noble. Not very attractive even, but I was drunk. They get prettier the more you drink." His father paused and looked off across the courtyard. "It was a mess. I had Jon Aryn and Varys to help smooth things over, but my brother still hasn't forgiven me. The wench was his new wife's sister, or cousin. I forget. She gave me a son and I had to claim him to make peace. They would have made me marry her if it wasn't for your mother. We were already married at the time, and she was pregnant with you... It's different with low-born women. You can pay them to raise your bastards and they are grateful for the coin.”

Joffery was looking at the ground trying to make sense of all the rules about which women you could fuck and which you could not. It seemed like you should be able to to anything you wanted if you were the king... or if you were the crowned prince.

“So, Robb Stark is going to marry this Margaery Tyrell. If I got a bastard on her, how would he know?”

“He would know.” The King looked troubled. “I think she would tell him. For that matter, he is a Stark. He probably hasn't fucked her yet himself. And he's Ned's son. Probably smart enough to count.”

“What's that got to do with it?” sneered Joffery.

“Well, it takes nine moons to make a baby. If the girl has a baby too soon after the wedding, then the man will know, unless he's been fucking her himself beforehand.”

“What if I wanted to marry her?”

“Margaery Tyrell?”

“Yes. What if I wanted to marry her? The Starks would have to stand aside and let me, wouldn't they?”

“Well, not you, no. If I commanded it, as their King, I suppose they would. But Ned is a dear friend and his son seems to be happy with the match. You have never even talked to the girl. I don't see any reason why I would want to interfere.”

“What about Sansa?”

“It was my intention to have her betrothed to you, but as it turns out, she's betrothed already.”

“Like Margaery? Too whom?” Joffery felt a twinge of panic. If a little girl like Sansa was already betrothed who would he marry? Would he be stuck with an old hag like those serving women? Or someone deformed like his cousin Shireen? He shivered a little at the thought. He wanted someone beautiful like his mother, but who would cry for him like his sister.

“No, not like Margaery. They are still negotiating that betrothal. Sansa is already betrothed. To a prince of Dorne as I understand it. It's much harder to break a betrothal, even a King cannot do that without permission from the High Septon.”

Joffery was impressed, he had not known that a High Septon held any power over a king. His father didn't even seem to mind. When he was king he would have to see about making some new laws. There should be no one to hold him back from anything he wanted, not even the gods.

“What about the Lady Stark?”

“Catelyn Tully Stark?” The king roared, surprised.

“Yes. She's married. What if you wanted to marry her? Could you command your friend to give her to you?”

“I suppose I could command him to let me sleep with her. Rumor has it that Targaryen bastard before me did that kind of thing. But that is what made the Targaryen's so evil, they knew no laws, had no rules. I would not command another man to allow me to sleep with his wife.”

Joffery was shaking his head, “No, but you said it was okay to sleep with a married woman.”

“Aye. If they want it and you want it, there is no harm. Perhaps not the wife of your your best friend though, even if she wanted it. Which is not the case with Lady Stark. Ice runs in her veins, take my word for it. She would no more dishonor her vows than her husband would break his.”

“Didn't you say he had a bastard?”

“T'was before, he knew Catelyn, during the war. Every man has needs in a war, but Ned is the kind to be embarrassed by it after the fact. He wouldn't break his vows to his wife if she were near.”

Joffery nodded, “But you could command him, if you wanted to?”

“If I wanted to, that is what it means to be King,” his father sighed.

“Why are Robb and Sansa betrothed when I'm not?”

“You are still young.”

“Not as young as Sansa.”

“You are only a few months older, and she is only recently betrothed. I had hoped to make a match for you here. It is about time to find an alliance, not to mention - you are my heir and we will want to make sure the line is carried on. I'll look into a match when we return to the capital.”

“You should look into a match now. If I can't have Sansa, then I want Margaery. You can command that, can't you?”

“I could, but I don't see any need to break up a couple so clearly in love. Especially when you don't even know her.”

“I will get to know her then.” Joffery promised.

“Don't think that will change my mind. I'll see that you have a good match when the time is right. Enjoy your youth until then. Believe me, marriage is nothing you want to rush into. Marriage to a woman who does not love you - for the man you are, not for the throne you sit on - it's better not to be married at all.”

Joffery gave his father a look, it almost sounded like he was talking about mother. Did he regret having her for a wife? Would he have rather had that Florent girl who gave him the bastard? Or the dead sister in the crypts? He stopped just short of asking. He did not want to know if the king did not love his mother as much as he should. 

 


	28. Pentos (Quentyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentyn Martell attends Khal Drogo's wedding feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing last week. I just got a new job and may be a little slow to post while I get used to the new schedule. I was also having a hard time picking out a wedding gift for Quentyn to give to Daenerys...

Quentyn Martell could feel the sweat trickle down his spine. He was dressed in his armor to celebrate the marriage of Daenerys Targaryen to Khal Drogo. The armor had been made for him while he was in Yronwood where the air was crisp and the nights cool. Here in the fields outside of Pentos the air was hot and stifling. The afternoon sun beat down on khalasar that gathered for the wedding feast of their Khal and the Targaryen princess.

Khal Drogo had called his khalasar to attend him and they had come, forty thousand Dothraki warriors and uncounted numbers of women, children, and slaves. Outside the city walls they camped with their vast herds, raising palaces of woven grass, eating everything in sight and making the good folk of Pentos more anxious with every passing day.

Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm was seated at the center of a high table. Quentyn sat with his sister on the left while Ser Mormont and Illyrio Mopatis sat on his right. It was a place of high honor, but the King the Andals was not pleased.

Quentyn wondered if it was the marriage which displeased him or the fact they were seated below the Khal and his bride. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, and if his father had acted a few months sooner, she might have been his bride instead. But they had arrived to late. Part of Quentyn was relieved. He had only spoken to Daenerys a few times during their visit and found himself at a loss for words each time. While she was undeniably beautiful, he could not begin to imagine being married to her. But he felt sorry for her as well. She looked lost and lonely, as uncomfortable next to her Khal as he had been next to her.

Quentyn would have suffered the discomfort to save her from this night if he could have, but her brother refused their offer. The magister, Illyrio, had spoken for them, but only half-heartedly. He had helped to broker the marriage with the Khal and was receiving rich rewards for the part he played, much more than Dorne could have paid, even if they had been willing to ransom the princess.

They had not been willing, however. They needed Viserys, they did not need his sister. He had heard whispers that it was actually fortunate that she would be out of the way, one less player in the game of thrones. If Quentyn had been braver, he would have challenged Illyrio when he overheard that. But he was still only a squire, and while he was dutiful in learning the sword and spear, he was not particularly gifted in their use.

“My fellow magisters have doubled the size of the city guard,” Illyrio told them over platters of snap peppers one night.

“Best we get Princess Daenerys wedded quickly before they hand half the wealth of Pentos away to sellswords and bravos,” Ser Jorah Mormont jested. The exile had pledged Viserys his sword the night his sister had been sold to Khal Drogo; Viserys had accepted eagerly. Mormont had been his constant companion ever since.

Quentyn did not care for the northern knight any more than the beggar king. He did not like the way Jorah Mormont looked at him, as if he were less a man than the others. He was sixteen, a man grown by all the laws and customs of Westeros. His uncle Oberyn had offered him his knighthood before they left Dorne, but Quentyn refused the offer preferring to wait until the man who had raised him found him worthy.

He had been raised in Yronwood by Anders Yronwood and thought of him with all the affection and loyalty one should have toward one's own father. Quentyn did not remember his real father, Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne. He got letters every moon or two and there had been a few visits when he was still very young. Doran Martell suffered from gout and was less able to travel as he grew older. Anders Yronwood was often too busy with his own duties to entertain the thought of an extended visit to Sunspear as well. They had made one or two visits before his mother had returned to Norvos, but none since.

Magister Illyrio laughed lightly through his forked beard, but Viserys did not so much as smile. “He can have her tomorrow, if he likes,” her brother said. He glanced over at Daenerys, and she lowered her eyes. “So long as he pays the price.”

Quentyn tried to hide his feelings when he heard this. He would never sell his own sister the way that King Viserys had sold his. That seemed strange, since Viserys had grown up living with his sister while the trip across the Narrow Sea was the first time Quentyn could remember spending any time with Arianne. She was a beautiful woman, dark and sultry as the women of Sunspear were. She loved to tease him with stories of her sexual adventures. Her stories embarrassed Quentyn almost as much as the way that Viserys bluntly offered to let any man with an army fuck his own sister.

Quentyn was had only once kissed a girl before he left Yronwood. It had been one of the Drinkwater twins. His eyes were closed at the time and the twins refused to tell him which of them he had kissed afterward. It was not hard to make him blush.

Illyrio waved a languid hand in the air, rings glittering on his fat fingers. “I have told you, all is settled. Trust me. The Khal has promised you a crown, and you shall have it.”

“Yes, but when?”

“When the Khal chooses,” Illyrio said. “He will have the girl first, and after they are wed he must make his procession across the plains and present her to the dosh khaleen at Vaes Dothrak. After that, perhaps. If the omens favor war.”

Viserys seethed with impatience. “I piss on Dothraki omens. The usurper sits on my father's throne. How long must I wait?”

Illyrio gave a massive shrug. “You have waited most of your life, great king. What is another few months, another few years?”

_Dorne would not have made him wait_ , thought Quentyn. But he had refused his offer to marry Daenerys and come close to refusing Arianne as well. Calling her “Dornish” as if that were an insult.

Ser Jorah, who had traveled as far east as Vaes Dothrak, nodded in agreement. “I counsel you to be patient, your Grace. The Dothraki are true to their word, but they do things in their own time. A lesser man may beg a favor from the Khal, but must never presume to berate him.”

Viserys bristled. “Guard your tongue, Mormont, or I'll have it out. I am no lesser man, I am the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon does not beg.”

Ser Jorah lowered his eyes respectfully. Illyrio smiled enigmatically and tore a wing from the duck. Honey and grease ran over his fingers and dripped down into his beard as he nibbled at the tender meat.

The ceremony had begun at dawn and would continued until dusk, an endless day of drinking and feasting and fighting. Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings cinched by bronze medallion belts, and warriors greased their long braids with fat from the rendering pits. They gorged themselves on horseflesh roasted with honey and peppers, drank themselves blind on fermented mare's milk and Illyrio's fine wines, and spat jests at each other across the fires, their voices harsh and alien to Quentyn's ears.

Viserys looked splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon on the chest. Arianne wore a white gown with a golden starburst embroidered on the bodice. The two had been wed before dawn in a very private ceremony attended only by Daenerys and Quentyn as their witnesses and Illyrio with a Red priest. Quentyn wondered if their marriage would be considered legitimate in Westeros where they worshiped the Seven.

Arianne sat next to her new husband, their king now, and held his hand, nodding sympathetically while he complained about the savage customs, the heat, and how long it would take to get his army from the Khal. Jorah and Illyrio were on the other side of the king, too far to hear much of what they were saying. They conferred with each other for the most part and Quentyn could only make out a few comments here and there.

He sat a little apart and watched the princess sitting next to her khal. He imagined himself sitting next to her, and the wedding party a Dornish affair. Each dish was brought to Daenerys and the Khal first, streaming joints of meat and thick black sausages and Dothraki blood pies. She sat with a glass of wine in her hands pretending to drink. Every now and then Quentyn thought he could see tears shining in her lovely violet eyes. He did not eat any of the meats either, but later, when the fruits and sweetgrass stews and delicate pastries from the kitchens of Pentos were served, he lowered his eyes and ate. She had not chosen him, after all, there was no point in sharing her misery.

The sun was only a quarter of the way up in the sky when the first man died. Drums were beating as some of the women danced for the Khal. Drogo watched without expression, but his eyes followed their movements, and from time to time he would toss down a bronze medallion for the women to fight over.

The warriors were watching too. One of them finally stepped into the circle, grabbed a dancer by the arm, pushed her down to the ground, and mounted her right there, as a stallion mounts a mare. Illyrio had leaned over to tell the royal couple, “The Dothraki mate like the animals in their herds. There is no privacy in a khalasar, and they do not understand sin or shame as we do.”

Quentyn blushed deeply and tried to look away from the spectacle, but a second warrior stepped forward, and a third, and soon there was no way to avert his eyes. Then two men seized the same woman. There was a shout, and a shove, and in the blink of an eye their arakhs were out, long razor-sharp blades, half sword and half scythe. A dance of death began as the warriors circled and slashed, leaping toward each other, whirling the blades around their heads, shrieking insults at each clash. No one made a move to interfere.

It ended as quickly as it began. The arakhs shivered together faster than the eye could follow, one man missed a step, the other swung his blade in a flat arc. Steel bit into flesh just above the Dothraki's waist, and opened him from backbone to belly button, spilling his entrails into the dust. As the loser died, the winner took hold of the nearest woman – not even the one they had been quarreling over – and had her there and then. Slaves carried off the body, and the dancing resumed.

“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is deemed a dull affair,” Magister Illyrio commented. Before the day was over, a dozen men had died. Quentyn wondered if that would bring luck to both of the brides, even thought Arianne's marriage had been in secret. The blood seemed to pacify Viserys, his complaints were quieter and less frequent once the dancing and fucking and killing had started. He even smiled at the worst of it, completely engrossed in the savage display.

When at last the sun was low in the sky, Khal Drogo clapped his hands together, and the drums and the shouting and feasting came to a sudden halt. Drogo stood and pulled the Targayen princess to her feet beside him. It was time for the bride gifts.

Viserys went first, with Arianne, and gifted her with three handmaids. Quentyn knew they had cost them nothing; Illyrio no doubt had provided the girls. Irri and Jhiqui were copper-skinned Dothraki with black hair and almond-shaped eyes, Doreah a fair-haired, blue-eyed Lysene girl. “these are no common servants, sweet sister,” her brother told her as they were brought forward one by one. “Illyrio and I selected them personally for you. Irri will teach you riding, Jhiqui the Dothraki tongue, and Doreah will instruct you in the womanly arts of love.” He smiled thinly. “She's very good, Illyrio and I can both swear to that.”

Arianne gave the last servant girl an unveiled look of disdain, but Quentyn smiled at her. He knew that Arianne had worked hard to convince Viserys to honor the marriage pact with Dorne. She probably blamed the girl for making trouble. Quentyn could not help but picture the servant girl like one of the Dothraki dancers earlier with Viserys and Illyrio fighting over her. It was only too bad that neither of them had been killed in the process.

Quentyn went next. He gifted Daenerys with a box of ebony lined with deep red silk. Inside sat a slender crown covered with delicate dragons worked in various shades of gold.

“It's beautiful,” whispered Daenerys.

“It is rumored to have been worn by Queen Rhaenys when she fell from Meraxes.” Quentyn answered solemnly. “No one seems sure if the rumors are true, but this crown has been a treasure of Dorne for centuries. It represents our resistance to Targaryen rule. We resist no longer.”

With that, Quentyn bowed and returned to the table to sit next to his sister and her husband.

“You gave her a crown?” King Viserys hissed. “I am your king, why do you give _her_ a crown?”

“It was only a queen's crown, your Grace,” Quentyn answered uncertainly. After all, Dorne had given him their princess, and they never held a Targaryen king's crown.

On the dais, Ser Jorah Mormont was apologizing for his gift. “It is a small thing, my princess, but all a poor exile could afford,” he said as he laid a small stack of old books before her. Whatever was in the books appeared to please the silver-haired girl as much has the crown from Dorne.

Viserys snorted, “Books...”

Before he could comment further, Magister Illyrio murmured a command, and four burly slaves hurried forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze.

They all leaned forward to get a look when Daenerys opened the chest. She gasped, and then lifted out what looked like a huge jeweled egg. It was a shiny black, gleaming with red flecks. There were three of them and she held each up in turn, the second was deep green with flecks of bronze, and the third creamy white with gold.

“What are they?” Arianne asked, her voice hushed and full of wonder.

“Dragon's eggs, from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai,” said Magister Illyrio. “The eons have turned them to stone, yet still they burn bright with beauty.”

Visereys could barely contain his anger. “Crowns and dragon's eggs. Gifts worthy of a king, not for a horselord's whore!”

Jorah Mormont stood stiffly behind Viserys with his hand on his sword, ready to act if the young king did not calm himself.

Magister Illyrio returned to their table and placed a hand on Jorah's arm. “There is no need to be upset, your Grace, your wedding had to be done quickly and quietly this morning, but there are gifts for you as well. You shall have them when you return to my Manse.”

Both Jorah and Visereys relaxed when they heard Illyrio's promises, and Quentyn turned his attention back to the bride.

The khal's bloodriders offered her the traditional three splendid weapons. There was a great leather whip with a silver handle, a magnificent arakh chased in gold, and a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she was. After each weapon was presented, Daenerys spoke some Dothraki phrase and allowed her husband to accept the gifts in her place.

Ser Jorah explained that it was a Dothraki tradition for the Khal to received “bride gifts” as well as the bride. Viserys continued to watch with a look of envy on his face as the gifts poured in upon his sister: slippers and jewels and silver rings for her hair, medallion belts and painted vests and soft furs, sandsilks and jars of scent, needles and feathers and tiny bottles of purple glass, and a gown made form the skin of a thousand mice. “A handsome gift,” Magister Illyrio said of the last, after he had told them what it was. “Most lucky.”

Viserys' mood turned more sour with each gift as they piled up around Daenerys until finally, Khal Drogo brought forth his own bride gift to her. An expectant hush rippled out from the center of the camp as he left her side, growing until it had swallowed the whole khalasar. When he returned, the dense press of Dothraki gift-givers parted before him, and he led the horse to her.

She was a young filly, spirited and splendid. Quentyn knew this was no ordinary animal. She was grey as the winter sea, with a mane like silver smoke. There was something about her that took the breath away. She looked as if she could outrun and out maneuver even the sand steeds of Dorne.

Hesitantly Daenerys reached out and stroked the horse's neck, ran her fingers through the silver of her mane. Khal Drogo said something in Dothraki and Magister Illyrio translated. “Silver for the silver of her hair.”

“She is the pride of the khalasar,” Illyrio said. “Custom decrees that the khaleesi must ride a mount worthy of her place by the side of the Khal.”

Drogo lifted Daenerys up as easily as if she were a child and set her on the Dothraki saddle. Dany seemed uncertain for a moment. “What should I do?” she asked.

Ser Jorah Mormont answered. “Take the reins and ride. You need not go far.”

Nervously Daenerys gathered the reins in her hands and slid her feet into the short stirrups. The silver-grey filly moved with a smooth and silken gait, and the crowd parted for her, every eye upon them. The horse broke into a trot, and she smiled. Dothraki scrambled to clear a path. Daenerys sent it into a gallop, and now the Dothraki were hooting and laughing and shouting at her as they jumped out of her way. As she turned to ride back, a firepit loomed ahead, directly in her path. They were hemmed in on either side, with no room to stop. Then the silver horse lept the flames as if she had wings.

When she pulled up before Magister Illyrio, Daenerys said, “Tell Khal Drogo that he has given me the wind.” The fat Pentoshi stroked his yellow beard as he repeated her words in Dothraki, and Quentyn saw the Khal smile at her for the first time.

The last sliver of sun vanished behind the high walls of Pentos to the west just then. Khal Drogo commanded his blood riders to bring forth his own horse, a lean red stallion. As the Khal was saddling the horse, Viserys slid close to his sister on her silver, dug his fingers into her leg, and said, “Please him, sweet sister, or I swear, you will see the dragon wake as it has never woken before.”

Quentyn fumed as the two rode out into the plains. He was afraid for Daenerys, and angry at Viserys for being such an ass. But mostly he was angry with himself for failing to be a better choice of husband than the Khal in the first place.

He returned to Magister Illyrio's manse with his sister and their new king. There was a promise of wedding gifts and in spite of the long day under the hot sun, Viserys insisted that he and his bride receive their gifts immediately.

Magister Illyrio bowed and called to his servants. They brought forth a chest twice the size of the one given to Daenerys, filled with silks and jewels, and topped with not three, but four dragons' eggs.

“These eggs are not from Asshai, your Grace.” Illyrio told Viserys. “They are from the ruins of Summerhall. Your grandfather believed they might still hatch into dragons someday. On the night of the tragedy they tried to hatch seven of them.”

“Where are the others?” Demanded Viserys.

“They are lost, your Grace. Mayhaps they were destroyed in the fire. No one knows that even these few still exist.”

Viserys nodded, contemplating the eggs. “They tried to hatch them with fire?”

“Wildfire, I believe.”

“Very well, where are the rest?” Viserys snapped.

“The eggs were lost...” Magester Illyrio started.

“The rest of the gifts you fool. My sister was drowning in piles of gifts. You said mine were waiting for me here. Where are they?”

“I have given you twice what I gave your sister, and I believe Ser Jorah has something as well. The rest will come when we are able to announce your glad tidings to Westeros. Your own bride has promised you the armies of Dorne. And we know that many of the nobles of Westeros are storing up treasures for your return. You must be patient, your Grace.”

Quentyn could see many things in the king's face, but patience was not one of them.

“Show me your gifts then, Ser Jorah.”

The knight brought out a suit of armor, black plate with a three-headed dragon of rubies on the chest. “It was made in the image of Rhaegar's armor, your Grace,” Mormont said as he showed it to Viserys. Quentyn though that Illyrio must have provided the armor as well, since the knight so often claimed to be penniless.

The king nodded, “I shall wear it when I ride forth with the Dothraki horde.”

“I would not advise that, your Grace.” Illyrio hastened to reply.

This was not the first time they had this conversation. Ser Jorah Mormont had told him to stay in Pentos. Magister Illyrio had offered the use of his manse to encourage him to stay. Even Arianne had tried many times, using all the pillow tricks she new to get him to change his mind, but the answer was always the same.

“The Khal has not paid for my sister yet, and I will stay with him until he does.”

“We've told you, the Dothraki honor their bargains, but in their own time.” Ser Jorah tried again. “You cannot rush the Khal. He must take his bride to Vaes Dothrak to visit the dosh khaleen, then, when the omens favor war, you will have your army.

“I should have my army now.”

“But from what we know of the Dothraki you will get them no faster by riding with the Khalasar, my love,” Arianne pointed out. “What will you do if I conceive your heir among these savages?” she asked, placing her hand on her belly in a protective gesture.

Quentyn knew that she had used more than words to try to sway Viserys from his foolishness and wondered if her concern was more than a possibility.

Viserys looked down at her. She was short where he was tall, plump where he was gaunt, and dark where he was light and silvery. They made a striking pair, but Quentyn had seen little but boredom in Viserys attitude toward Arianne so far.

“Do you fear the Dothraki?” he asked. “I would protect you. If any one of those savages ever laid a hand on you I would kill him myself.”

“I have no doubt about that, your Grace.” Arianne answered smoothly. “It is not the savages I fear. It is the heat, and the miles of riding on horseback. It is the food they eat, my love, you know I detest horseflesh and fermented mare's milk as it is. How could I tolerate them with a pregnant belly?”

Viserys stared at her belly, even reaching out halfway toward her as if he was going to place his hand on hers.

“If I do not go with the Khal, how can I make sure he follows through on his promise? What would keep him from taking my sister and keeping his army?”

“I will,” Ser Jorah spoke up. “I will go with him and make sure he keeps his promise to you.”

Arianne gave Jorah Mormont one of her best smiles.

Magister Illyrio nodded in favor of the plan. “Perhaps it would be more convincing to the Khal to see you as a king who commands his vassals than merely a brother who follows his sister.”

“I am Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

“So you are,” replied Magister Illyrio calmly but not openly impressed, “but the Khal is a savage. He has never seen Westeros and knows nothing of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and even less of the First Men. He sees you as only the brother of his bride and does not understand who you really are. He will not treat you with the respect you deserve. Let Ser Jorah go with him and take his insults in your stead while you stay here with your lovely wife and allow us to treat you as the King you are.”

“Please, my love,” Arrianne added, placing a light hand on his arm. “for our child.”

“Are you with child already?” Viserys mocked.

“It's too soon to tell, your Grace,” Arrianne replied with a wicked smile, “but if I am not I will be soon if we are here together with nothing to worry about but getting one.”

And so it was decided. Ser Jorah Mormont would join the khalasar as Daenerys' sworn shield, and protect Viserys interests. He promised to send messages to Illyrio at every chance and let them know the Khal's mind regarding the Iron Throne. Viserys and Arianne would stay in Pentos with Magister Illyrio and work on an heir.

Quentyn was to return to Westeros, and to Dorne, where he would have to learn how to rule in his sister's place. He was not excited about the trip, nor about returning to Sunspear, a place he had few memories of and to a father he remembered even less. But he was always the dutiful son and would do as they asked. He only wished his sister had been able to persuade her new husband to return to Sunspear as well. He did not trust Illyrio any more than Viserys trusted the Khal.

 


	29. Winterfell (Robert)

Robert woke in the morning with one hand on an ample breast and the other nestled between a young girl's lower lips. There were hammers in his head and a mouth on his cock.

“Good morning, milord,” said a dreamy young voice attached to the breast. He gave it a squeeze and wiggled his other hand to the sound of delighted giggles on his other side.

He felt his cock slip out of the warm mouth, “He's a your grace, not a milord,” the third girl said before returning to her business.

Robert groaned. The girls were all serving at Winterfell, dark-haired with long faces like the Starks, but none of them were Lyanna. He sighed.

“My head hurts, can't any of you get me some ale?”

The girls all giggled and slipped off the bed and into some clothes, hurrying off to find his breakfast. He groaned and sat up slowly on the edge of the bed. There was a bitterly cold draft coming in from the window. _It's probably snowing outside_ , he thought. That was the North, bitterly cold even in summer. His joints had begun to ache as his weight increased, but never as much as they had since they crossed the neck coming north. He felt old and tired.

The girls were all warm and willing enough. And it was a great blessing that Cersei had stayed in King's Landing. He spent every night of the trip with one or more women, all of them glad to have him in their beds. Not like that cold bitch he had married. The cold air of the north made him feel old, but not as old as waking up to that woman's constant complaints and insults. No matter what he did, she was never satisfied. He had given positions of honor to nearly every one in her very large family, but she was still asking for more.

And now her son, their son, wanted to get married too. Perhaps it was time to take Joffery whoring and make a man of him.

Perhaps a taste of some female delights would make him forget about this little rose from Highgarden. She was attractive enough, but he saw the way she looked at Ned's son. He wouldn't be doing his own son any favors to intervene with the Stark betrothal. More than likely that Tyrell girl would turn out just like Cersei in the long run. Not for Robb, who she obviously had feelings for, but for anyone else.

Or perhaps she would be like him, missing the true love of his life, a Stark, while trapped in a marriage with a golden-haired Lannister whose interest faded before the honeymoon was over. Either way, it didn't seem like a good idea.

Cersei had looked at him with admiration once, during their wedding. He was sure of it. But something had gone wrong not long after, and he had no idea what it was. God's forgive him, he had not been quick to forget Lyanna and show Cersei the affection she deserved. Then by the time he did, she didn't seem to care any more. She barely tolerated his touch. It was a miracle they had managed to make one heir, let alone three of them.  Sometimes she had even yelled at him for taking advantage, for being too rough, she flat out accused him of raping her more than once. Not that a man could rape his own wife, but it was part of the madness he had to live with. 

The girls returned with more giggles and a jug of ale to distract him from his thoughts.

Robert downed half the jug in one swig, setting off even more giggles.

“Ah, that's better,” he sighed, “Now, where were we?” He laughed as the girls pulled off their dresses and tumbled back into bed with him. All thoughts of Cersei and Joffery were pushed aside as they indulged in the pleasures of the flesh.

It was nearly noon before Robert was ready to dress and face the day. He came down to the great hall of the Starks in time for the mid-day meal.

“Robert! Your Grace. We were about to send a search party for you,” Ned greeted him.

Robert let out a loud laugh. “The girls knew where to find me.” He looked around the hall. Joffery was flirting with Margaery and Sansa. Sansa looked like she was enjoying his attention, but Margaery was looking everywhere but at Joffery. No, she was not a good choice for his son.

“Ah, Ned, what have you planned for entertainment for your king?” Robert sat next to his old friend.

“I had considered a hunt, but the days are too short for hunting when you stay abed until after noon.”

Robert laughed again. “Perhaps on the morrow then. But this afternoon, what do you northerner's do for entertainment? Are there no singers? No fools?”

“Only the ones you brought with you, your grace.” Ned answered.

“Ha!” Robert was not entirely sure Ned was not insulting him. “Take a look at your girl over there with my son. She likes him Ned, are you sure that betrothal is the right thing?”

Ned looked over to where Joffery was talking with the two girls and observed, “It looks like he has eyes for Margaery, not Sansa.”

“True enough, Ned. He asked me last night if I couldn't make a betrothal for him. He has an interest in both the girls. Your boy and the Tyrell girl seem happy with each other, and I wouldn't want to break up a true love match like that.” Robert sighed, thinking of himself and Lyanna again. They would have had the perfect marriage, if only she had lived. “But what about your girl, Sansa, she does not seem as happy with her betrothal. Are you sure it's too late to change it?”

“Aye, I'm sure.” Ned replied with a frown on his face. “She is young and given to romantic fantasies. I'm sure she will be happier once she meets the boy she is betrothed to.”

“I'd still like to join our houses, Ned. How am I to do that when you have promised all your children already?”

“All but Bran,” Ned said distractedly.

“Bran? Which one is he?”

Ned came back to the present and snorted. “He's the one who hopes to wear that fancy white armor and guard your sorry ass. I'm hoping he'll outgrow that someday.”

Robert laughed again. “He's got a lot of growing to do still, Ned. More likely he'll be guarding Joffery's ass than mine. Or he could be my good-son and dress any damn way he pleases. I'd still let him guard me if that is his wish.”

Ned laughed too. “Perhaps, in a year or two, once he's old enough to notice her.”

Well, it wasn't a 'no' at least, but Robert still felt the rejection personally. He had always wanted to be connected to his friend, and to his friend's family for some reason. Ever since they were boys growing up together in the Eyrie. Ned had been a better brother to him than Stannis ever had. Stannis never liked to have any fun. Ned would never have had any fun without Robert, but he rarely objected when Robert had wanted to play a prank or sneak around the Eyrie. Renly might have been a better brother, if he'd been born sooner, but he had been too young to be of much interest.

He had failed with Lyanna, and now it seemed he was failing again with his own children. Was he wrong to think that Ned loved him as much as he loved Ned? Why would he object to a match between their children? Why hadn't he come to Robert first when he started thinking of making matches?

Robert got quiet as he ate his meal, wondering how loyal Stark really was to the crown. And was it the crown or the friendship they had once had that it was based on? If he hadn't been king, would Ned still be hosting this visit? Robert hoped that he would be happy to have him for old times sake, but it was hard to know when people were running around bowing and calling you 'your grace' all the time.

He was a good king though. He didn't burn people like Aerys had. He was generous with all his subjects. He had forgiven the houses that fought for the Mad King.  He'd put on more tourneys than any other king in memory. And the land was prosperous, plenty of food and wine. Peaceful. Just for that, you would think any lord would be happy to have his children marry the royal family.

No matter what he did, it was just never quite good enough. Not good enough to save Lyanna, not good enough for Cersei, and apparently not even good enough for his closest friend. Robert grabbed a skin of wine and started drinking his way through the afternoon, entertainments be damned.

It wasn't long before Ned excused himself to see to some business. He offered Robert a tour of the glass gardens and the godswod, but Robert declined, preferring the company of more wine and the serving women to the direction his thoughts had been taking about Ned's refusal to consider any of his marriage proposals.

Margaery had escaped Joffery's attentions. Sansa tried to fill in and eventually left the hall on Joffery's arm. Perhaps she would show him those glass gardens that Ned was so proud of.

Robert sighed. He should have gone on the damn tour.

He was calling for more wine when Loras Tyrell approached him.

“Your Grace,” the Tyrell boy bowed.

“If it isn't the knight of flowers,” Robert greeted him, “I'm surprised to see you so far from home. Doesn't my brother miss your company?”

“He says so quite often, your Grace.” Loras replied. “There was a raven from him just last week.”

“Ha. And what is he planning to wear this season?” Robert knew his brother was more interested in appearances than anything else. He was an adequate knight, and Robert was grateful for that, but he lacked any real substance. It seemed Stannis got all of the serious thought between the two, and he had enough for ten men.

“He didn't say, your grace. It seems he was too upset by what your wife is trying to do to worry about his wardrobe.”

“Renly? Too upset to worry about what to wear? What is that damn woman up to now?” 

“You haven't heard then?”

“I've been on the road for six months. You know ravens can't find you on the road.” Robert growled. He did not enjoy the gossip as much as most others at court. And it was clear that Loras Tyrell loved to gossip. “Out with it. Tell me and be done.”

“She has been trying to get the small council to approve betrothals for your children.”

“What? Without my approval?” Robert roared. The din of conversation in the great hall fell to near silence as people turned to look at the high table.

“I was afraid that might be the case, your Grace.” Loras hesitated.

“Well, out with it. Do you know who she wants to marry my children to or not?”

Loras cleared his throat. “Perhaps it's better for you to read it yourself...” he trailed off, clearly too uncomfortable to say what he knew. Instead he handed the king a raven's scroll.

“It's this part here,” Loras pointed to a place about two thirds of the way down the message.

Robert scanned the message from top to bottom and saw Renly's professions of love and longing. When he got to the part Loras was pointing to, he grabbed the scroll for a closer look.

“Does she think we are Targaryens? What would possess her to suggest such a foolish thing?”

“I'm sure I don't know, your Grace. Renly has not said over much about council business to me, but I have gotten the impression that there is more to her plans than just this. You are sorely needed in King's Landing, your Grace. I thought you should know.”

Robert fumed and nodded. “You were right to bring this to my attention. You may go now.”

Loras rose to leave.

“Wait, before you go. What do you think of your sister's betrothal to the Stark boy?”

Loras looked uncomfortable. “She seems quite taken with him, your Grace.”

“Yes, but?”

Loras blushed a little. “But Winterfell is a long way from Highgarden and it's already getting cold here. I hate to think of her freezing during a long winter.”

“And your family? Do they feel the same?”

“I believe so, your Grace.”

Robert nodded. Perhaps he could prevent Cersei's plot before she even hatched it. The children were here with him, and it was the father's permission they needed, not their mothers. Not to mention, he was the king. He could command any betrothal he wanted to. There was no way he was going to see his son and daughter married to each other. That was ridiculous.

Not that Cersei could really force the children to marry each other. He was stil the king, after all. But she always managed to get her way in the end, somehow. The only thing he had been able to refuse her had been making her father hand of the king. And that had come up again when Jon Aryn died. Or her brother, the kingslayer, who didn't want the job.

Robert shook his head. He had actually asked, after Cersei insisted her brother was the one who should have it. But Jaime claimed no interest. So they came here to find Ned. Ned, who still had not even accepted the position. Why the devil was the man so reluctant?

He understood the kingslayer's reasons. He was a knight. He was suited to fight battles, not get involved with politics. Robert felt the same way about being king. If only it were as easy to be king as to become king. Fighting and killing were easy. Trying to make everyone happy was not.

But Stark was just the type to take on that responsibility and do the job well. He should be the hand. Robert would have to press him to accept sooner rather than later.

“Kingslayer!” Robert roared. Jaime had been standing in the hall keeping guard from a distance.

Jaime approached Robert and kneeled, “Your Grace,”

“Get Ned Stark back in here, we need to talk.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“And then check on my son and make sure he isn't up to no good.”

“Which one, your Grace.”

“Joffery. Now go!”

All three children were still young. Joffery was barely 12, and only just starting to notice the girls. He should have years to play and pursue as many wenches as he wanted to before being saddled with a wife. It wasn't right to betroth them so young. But he was also the crown prince. A betrothal now would not hurt, he could wait until he was a man for the marriage. Not that marriage was the end of all your fun. It didn't have to be. But coming home after you had your fun was a trial.

Ned, ever dutiful, was looking out for his children. Robert could do no less. But who would he match with Joffery? There were at least half a dozen Frey girls of the right age, but most of them took after their father, old Walder Frey. The Freys were not a very worthy family either. But then who? There were lesser families all over the seven kingdoms that would be flattered to have a daughter become queen, but shouldn't the next queen be from one of the best families?

If the Lannisters had a girl the right age, Joffery would undoubtedly already be married. Perhaps that was what possessed Cersei to name Myrcella as a match.

Robert called for more wine. His head hurt just thinking about it. There were no highborn girls of the right age. No one had girls... not the Aryns, not the Tullys, not even the Martells. Only the Tyrells and the Starks. His old friend had beat him too the only two women even remotely eligible to be queen. Unless, but no, Stannis' girl was marked with greyscale. That would not do.

“You requested my presence?”

Ned was there, kneeling in front of him.

“Get up damn you. Take a seat. You've had your time to talk to Cat, now answer me, tell me you will be hand of the king.”

“I will, your grace.” Ned bowed his head as he sat in the chair Robert had pointed to.

“Good, you can start by advising me about my children. It seems everyone is getting betrothed these days. Who would you suggest?”

The look on Ned's face! Robert his his laughter behind another cup of wine.

“Come on, Ned, we need to pick a little queen to replace Cersei some day. Who should it be? Stannis' girl Shireen? One of the Freys?”

“You can't be serious.” Ned objected.

“Cersei has got it in her mind to get Joffery betrothed to someone. I just saw the raven's message today. We need to act fast before she has time to ferment this little plot of hers.”

“Who did she suggest?” Ned asked cautiously, “The Freys?”

“Never mind who she suggested. It wasn't anyone that I would have marry my son.”

Robert paused a moment to reflect on the idea of Myrcella as queen. The girl was not at all like her mother. She was smart and kind. She might actually make a good queen. It was too bad her brother was the next in line for the throne. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. If he wasn't careful he'd be agreeing with Cersei even when she wasn't here to make her case.

“Isn't the heir to Dorne still unwed?” Ned suggested.

“Ah, the princess, she's too old, she can't possibly be a maid still, not a woman her age – in Dorne.”

“There is another princess, somewhere in Essos...”

“Never!” Robert could feel his face flush. “My seed will not mate with dragonspawn.”

Ned nodded, “A Bracken or Blackwood, perhaps?”

“It would be unseemly to marry into a lesser house.”

Ned laughed, “Are we not all lesser houses? We have three Tyrell maids here at Winterfell serving as Margaery's handmaids. All are close to Joffery's age.”

“No. They are servants. I will not have my son married to a servant. It must be a noble house. And there is no house more noble than the Starks of Winterfell. Ah, Ned, how could you give your daughters away without even asking me first?”

Ned looked at the ground. “I did not want to presume on our friendship. I want my children to marry well, but I had not thought either of my daughters would be a queen someday.”

Robert snorted. “You think your own girls are not good enough, but would offer me a Frey?”

“The truth is, I had not thought much about it at all. Not until Cat started to worry about their future. They still seem much to young to be worried about marriage.”

“Aye, and mine too. Damn these women.” Robert sighed again. “What about your Bran and my Myrcella, Ned? She could stay her in Winterfell to foster with you until they are older. Perhaps your son will grow to love her?”

“I will talk to Cat. I think she would agree to foster Myrcella for a time. She may even agree to the match, although I doubt Bran would love her if he felt we were trying to force him to marry.”

Robert nodded. Perhaps fostering would be enough. The girl would be far away from both her mother and Joffery and then Cersei could take no action. She could still force a betrothal though, and that was still a problem. A wedding would be the best thing, and Joffery old enough, even if just barely. Myrcella was too young. Perhaps the Tyrell lad, it wasn't like he would be in a hurry to deflower her, not as long as Renly was available.

“Enough of this, Ned, we will talk more later.”

Robert went back to drinking and wished he could solve his problems by just hitting someone. 

 


	30. King's Landing (Cersei)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, while the king is away, the queen will play...

Cersei drew the wrap around her shoulders tighter. There was a hint of autumn in the early morning air. It annoyed her. She preferred to stay abed, especially now that Littlefinger had secured her a proper bed-warmer. The boy was from Lys, with the long silvery hair and purple eyes of a Targayen. It was easy for her to imagine it was the young and dashing prince Rhaegar in her bed. As long as he didn't speak.

That was the problem with most men. They thought they were so clever and were always running off at the mouth trying to prove it. Jaime rarely spoke. He was a man of action. 

Cersei smiled at the thought. If he ever did have an idea of his own, it was easy enough to silence him. This boy from Lys was almost as good. She didn't recall his name. She had commanded him to answer to 'Rhaegar' or 'my Prince' when they were together. He was a stunning lover. He could please her in ways she had never thought of before, doing things to her that even Jaime had never done.

He even played the harp, although his talent did not match that of the late prince, and his singing voice was atrocious. He had tried to sing once and she had commanded him to never try again.

Cersei was tired. Not only was the hour unreasonably early, she had been up celebrating news from Winterfell until the hour of the wolf. A bird from Jaime confirmed that her husband and his entourage had reached the northern holdfast without any unusual problems. More importantly, it had conveyed the news that the little whore from Highgarden was all but married to the heir of Winterfell. Cersei couldn't help but smile at the thought of the little southern flower wilting as winter gripped her new home in the north. 

She scoffed at the very idea that the girl might have been betrothed to her golden boy, Joffery. No, he would marry his sister. She has considered it carefully over the past few months. Any lingering doubts had died shortly after her affair with her own 'little prince' had begun. A woman deserved to be happy.

And who could make her daughter happier than Joffery? No one in the seven kingdoms. Joffery and Myrcella would be as happy as she and Jaime would have been if only they had been allowed to be together as they were meant to be.

Cersei nibbled at the large platter of fresh fruit and looked out over the city. 

It was her city now. Robert had been gone six months traveling north. In that time she had been busy. There were projects underway all over the city. She was ensuring that King's Landing was worthy of royalty. The roads were being repaired. Old buildings were being fixed or replaced. Everywhere there was an unsightly flaw, it was being remade into a work of art.

Besides seeing to her more intimate needs, Littlefinger was magically finding the needed coin to fund Cersei's every whim. She could not imagine a more loyal courtier. If the man was not so low-born she would have made him her hand instead of Stannis. 

Stannis was a prickly sort, and obsessed with what he liked to call justice. He could not have been any more different from Robert. The man did not drink or whore at all. He could barely even stomach a compliment. He was dutiful though, and Cersei could make use of that too.

It was Robert's little brother that she found to be most useful though. He was very helpful in planning a superior type of entertainment. There would be no more of the tourneys that Robert favored. They were messy and loud. They attracted the worst sort of people to the city: sellswords and camp followers. Instead they would have balls and feasts like no one in King's Landing had ever seen before. They would attract the best of the Westeros nobility and even foreign rulers. Varys agreed with Renly that the more refined activities would help to win allies and trade agreements that would make the seven kingdoms the envy of the known world.

She looked over the city toward Baelor's Sept. There was a new statue of Baelor the Blessed to be unveiled today. That was why she was out of bed as such an ungodly early hour in the morning. It was the first of her projects to reach completion, and today would mark the end of King Robert's rule and the beginning of Queen Cersei's.

The people would not be able to help but recognize her superior leadership every time they saw the sun reflect off the new golden statue she had commissioned. 

And there was her justice as well. Queen Cersei the merciful they would call her. She smiled at the thought. She was no where near as forgiving as that oaf she was married to. But with Stannis as hand, suggesting death and dismemberment for even the smallest offenses, Cersei's own punishments were all received with great relief and promises of eternal gratitude and loyalty.

“Your Grace,” ser Meryn Trant interrupted her thoughts, “your carriage is ready.”

“Your cloak is dirty, see that you replace it with a clean one before we leave.” Cersei barely acknowledged him as she brushed past. This was going to be her greatest moment it would not do to have the two remaining kingguard knights looking anything less than their best. “And see that ser Blount is properly attired as well.”

The other five were with Robert and her children, two for him and one for each of them. It should have been Jaime and ser Meryn who remained behind. Although ser Boros was loyal enough, he had gone to fat since he joined the kingsguard and did not appear as the shining knight Cersei wanted to have attend her at public functions.

She wished she had seen this opportunity coming sooner. She would have sent Trant with Robert. He was just the one she would want to have guarding him on a hunt. There were undoubtedly plenty of those, and who could fault even the finest of the kingsguard for a hunting accident? He was the one she thought would do her bidding, even against Robert, if it came down to it. 

Cersei sighed. There would be plenty of time to deal with Robert if he returned. And there was always the possibility that something would happen before then. 

The people were quiet this morning. Cersei found it annoying to think that the peasants were sleeping in while she was up and dressed and ready for a ceremony. It was only a little less annoying when they arrived at Baelor's Sept to find a small crowd gathering.

Both Maester Pycelle and the High Septon had insisted that the early hour was the best time for the unveiling. She could see the old Maester shuffling around the cloth that covered the statue. It had been hidden from view for weeks. Only the artisans working on it had been allowed under the cloth.

Everyone took their places on the steps of Baelor's Sept. The Hight Septon came forward and began a long and monotonous sermon about the statues' namesake. 

Cersei could feel her face cramping from the effort of smiling through the entire sermon. Baelor the Blessed had locked his sisters away in the maiden vault to avoid having impure thoughts about them. Cersei was glad he was long dead. She had no use for men who did not welcome a few impure thoughts. They were harder to control.

When the time to unveil the statue finally arrived, the clouds parted and the sun peeked out to glitter off the new, gold-plated statue of Baelor the Blessed. The crowd had grown huge during the High Septon's sermon and now it roared in approval.

It appeared that even the gods were on her side. There had been an abnormal amount of rain in the past fortnight, washing away much of the normal stench of King's Landing. But as Maester Pycelle had predicted, the clouds were quickly dissipating and the sun was chasing off the chill of the morning. 

Cersei had wanted a solid gold statue, but Lord Baelish had convinced her that the money would be better used to repay some of the crowns debts. She agreed to his plan initially as a reward for the bed-warmer he procured for her. His advice had brought unexpected rewards, however, like the message from her father about how pleased he was with her ability to put things in order in the capitol. She had saved the raven scroll and started nearly every day by taking it out and reading it over again. 

Lord Tywin Lannister had even, finally, agreed to stay put at Casterly Rock.

When Robert first left the capitol, he had written to Cersei saying he would be happy to come to King's Landing and help her rule while her husband was away. Once the Hand of the King, her father claimed that he was well suited to fill Jon Aryn's shoes until such time as Robert officially filled the position. 

Cersei had reacted quickly, naming Stannis as acting hand and replying to her father that the temporary placement was at Robert's request. A small lie to both her father and Stannis that had kept both reasonably happy to leave her in charge. This was her chance to rule the seven kingdoms and not even Tywin Lannister was going to stand in her way.

The trip back to the Red Keep was slow. They had to route around several of her projects and some of the roads they used were not paved. The recent rains had left them excessively muddy and the procession was slowed and even stopped once or twice to extract a hoof or wheel from the mire.

That would usually have bothered Cersei, but she was too happy today to care about such minor inconveniences. The crowds loved her. They cheered as she went by and called her name. They even reached out to touch her, which was quite charming as long as her guards kept them at an appropriate distance. Cersei threw a few coppers their way. 

It was good to have the people love you.

At one stop, there was a group of drunken tavern-goers singing a song about a lion and a stag. Cersei was prepared to have them all arrested until she realized that in this song the stag was a fool who led the forrest creatures into peril and it was the beautiful lioness who saved them all. For that group, she threw a handful of silver stags.

Cersei was late returning to the Red Keep and had to skip her luncheon in order to hold court. It should have been cancelled, but Stannis was already there and offering to hold court by himself so she could eat. 

That would not do, the people needed to see her protecting them from men like Stannis, and by extension her husband - the king.

Cersei was tired and she was distracted by the hollow ache in her belly. The first person brought before them was a thief.

“... only did it to feed my family.”

“He confessed to stealing, he should lose his hand.” Stannis stated without emotion.

Well, not everyone could eat any time they wanted to, could they? For once, Cersei was tempted to allow Stannis' judgement to stand, but that was not how she would win the people.

Cersei was bored by now and decided to have a little fun. She rose from the bench she sat on in front of the Iron Throne and walked over to the man. She stood inches away from him and took his right hand between her own. He was kneeling and she bent over him, allowing him a glimpse of her cleavage. She pulled his hand close enough to just graze the side of her breast. 

His eyes went wide and he paled. It was treason to touch a queen so intimately. Cersei just smiled at him.

“It seems a shame to take a man's hand when he was only trying to feed his family. Perhaps we need only take a finger?” Cersei rubbed his hand between her own, massaging each of his fingers in turn. “Tell me, which of your fingers would you like to lose?” She smiled at the man the way she would smile at Jaime when he was between her legs, a smile full of promises of pleasure.

The man opened and closed his mouth, “I-I-I...” he could not seem to form any words. Cersei finally settled on his little finger. “This one?” she asked, and he nodded. “Y-y-yes, your Grace.”

Cersei could see the bulge in his trousers and smiled wider. She would take a hand or a finger, or have them castrated if they did not show any sign of interest in her. But when they did, she felt they were better left whole. She dropped his hand and turned to Stannis. “I believe this one is sufficiently sorry for his deeds already. He will need both his hands and all his fingers to protect us from the snarks and grumpkins.”

Cersei walked slowly back to her bench and sat, letting the implications of her statement sink in before making the official pronouncement. She was slowly building a small army of her own, men loyal to her that would be trained by the brothers of the night's watch. If they day ever came that she needed an army she would have them pardoned and released from their vows.

“You shall be sent to the Night's Watch to take the black. Your family will be given a place in our service so you need not fear for their well-being, as long as you are faithful in your duties and they are in theirs.”

The thief fell to his knees, tears of gratitude rolling down his face, “Thank you, your Grace.” 

She could see the family huddled together looking grateful also as Varys approached them to discuss their new arrangements.

The Red Keep had plenty of new servants since she had been doing justice with Stannis. At first, Cersei was afraid that they would not be able to afford them all, but it turned out that they were so grateful for the positions that they would work twice as hard for half the pay. Littlefinger had suggested the lower wages, and Varys assured her that the new workers were not only less likely to steal from the crown, but also the first to report it if one of the older servants did.

Hours passed as her stomach turned and twisted and she protected one supplicant after another from the full justice that Stannis suggested. Once in a while, she allowed Stannis' rule to stand. 

There was a minor Tyrell vassal who complained that the Tyrell's were not paying full price for his cloth. 

“A man should be grateful for whatever his Lord is willing to give.” Stannis proclaimed. “I would strip this ungrateful servant of his looms and give them to another who would appreciate the opportunity to weave for one of the noble houses of Westeros.”

Cersei was in a particularly good mood toward the Tyrells since she heard about the daughter's upcoming marriage.

“I agree. So be it.” Her hunger was really becoming more than she could bear as well. “That is all for the day. If there are any other complaints against your betters, you can bring them to us on the morrow.”

Cersei rose, eager to return to her chambers and relax. She hoped that allowing Stannis' punishment to stand would reduce the number of people looking for justice next time. It didn't pay to be too merciful after all. She had seen how poorly that worked for Robert, not to mention her grandfather who was even more lenient still.

When she returned to her room she ate quickly, and then turned to a secret passage in the walls that Varys had shown her. It turned out that some ancient Targaryen wanted to visit his queen in secret and built a passage between her rooms and Robert's. 

Cersei snorted. Baelor the Blessed, most likely. Wouldn't it be just like a man to pretend to be without lust, lock his sisters up, and then keep a mistress in the queens quarters? She made her way to Robert's room where 'Rhaegar' waited for her with his harp. 

Opening the wall silently she stood and watched him pluck at the strings for a few minutes. His hair covered his face in much the same way as the real Rhaegar's had. He did not have that same melancholy look to him though. This was what Rhaegar would have looked like if he had been happy. And if he had only been allowed to marry her, she thought, he would have been. She would not have made him miserable like that Stark bitch had. And the seven kingdoms would not have been torn apart by a war either. 

Sometimes she hated her father for letting King Aerys steal her future from her. And not just her, but everyone. If she had married Rhaegar not only would there have been no war, the good work she was doing now could have begun so much sooner. They would have been living the dream for years and years already, but as it was, she was only beginning to repair the damage her husband had caused.

Cersei smiled, “Why are you playing with that harp when you could be playing with me?”

Her prince raised his head, startled, and looked at her. 

“No. Don't speak!” 

She could not stand the sound of his voice. She wanted to imagine that the years had magically melted away and she was with her prince. His accent would break the illusion.

“Come here and show me how you worship your queen.”

No one guarded Robert's rooms while he was away. Her own guards were still outside her own rooms and far away. There was no need for her to keep quiet.

Everyone thought she was taking a nap in her rooms while he was really defiling her husband's bed with this male whore from one of Littlefinger's finer establishments. And no one knew. There was no chance that anyone would find out.

The man worked her up with his tongue until she commanded him to enter her. 

He massaged her slowly, driving her into a frenzy. She bucked against him, faster and faster, shouting, “Now, do it now.”

He tried to pull out, but she wrapped her legs around him and growled, “Inside me, stay inside me.”

He grunted his pleasure and spilled his seed inside her. She closed her eyes and pictured Prince Rhaegar, imagining this was their wedding night. She wanted more.

Cersei pushed him away. “I want to braid your hair,” she pushed him into place and began to run her fingers through his long silvery hair. With his back to her it was even easier to imagine he was the prince she had once been promised.

When she was done with the braid she told him that she wanted him to act like a Dothrakai horselord and take her violently from behind. It was the one thing he could not do that Jaime did so well. They almost always argued first, fought and then made love violently. This boy was too tender. He was very, very good at what he did, but there was still something missing and Cersei was trying her best to figure out what it was. 

Tonight came close. She had been demanding and her body ached from his love making. He had spilled his seed inside her over and over.

She would have to find Maester Pycelle and acquire some moon tea now. But the risk had been worth it. She felt as satisfied as she had ever been with any man other than Jaime.

There had been a number of them. The first was a guard in her father's service, Vylar, who had caught Jaime and her together. She had promised him a taste of what she had just given her brother in return for his silence. He had remained silent until her father returned to King's Landing and then she had paid the debt, as all Lannisters should. He had been hers ever since. From time to time she would reward him for particularly good service by allowing him another taste. 

From that moment on, she was always able to get her way if there were any men involved. They all wanted what she held between her legs. Everyone but her father and her husband. Those two men had made her life intolerable at times. She craved the approval of the one, and the destruction of the other.

It was not hard for Cersei to pretend to be indisposed the next morning. She was as sore as she had ever been, even in the early years of her marriage when Robert would come to her drunk and take her by force. She eased herself into the bath, and sent her maid servant to fetch Maester Pycelle.

The man was so slow, her bath was nearly cold by the time he arrived, and the bubbles had all but disappeared. Cersei enjoyed seeing the old Maester try to look everywhere except the tub she was reclining in.

“Moon tea?” Maester Pycelle repeated. “There is no need for you to have moon tea your Grace.”

“I have cramping,” the Queen complained. “I have often heard that moon tea is a remedy for this.”

“That is only an old wood's witch tale, your Grace. Perhaps I could make you a tincture of raspberry leaves instead. It had been proven to be, erm, more effective in relieving this symptom.”

Cersei could feel the flash of lightening in her eyes and cursed the old man for missing it. While she did not doubt his loyalty, his competence as a maester was less certain with every passing year. Perhaps she should send to the Citadel for a younger maester, but she could not know that the replacement would be loyal.

“Nevermind!” Cersei snapped. “I've heard hot baths work just as well as your cure. Heard it from women who have actually tried it.”

“Y-you must be careful, your Grace.”

“Careful of what?” 

“Careful of your husband's brothers. They are up to something. I do not know what, but I can see the looks they exchange in council meetings. They are plotting against you. If I gave you moon tea, they would certainly think you were trying to rid yourself of a child. Robert has been gone too long for anyone to believe a child now could be his.”

_Yes, yes, yes. I know_ , thought Cersei. Which is why I came to you, old man, because I trusted you to keep such things quiet. “And how would they find out, unless you told them?” she asked.

The maester shuffled his steps and mumbled, “I believe they have spies. They are watching me.”

Cersei shook her head and dismissed him, calling for her maid servants to bring more hot water. 

Of course, there was the plot that Littlefinger had warned her of, to make Robert fall in love with the little Tyrell girl and set her aside. But the Tyrells had sent their daughter north to woo Ned Stark's heir instead. Pycelle was obviously a step behind on catching plots.

Besides, both Renly and Stannis were happy with her rule. She had made Stannis hand, had she not? What had Robert ever done for his brother? And Renly had free run to plan all the entertainments in King's Landing, something he was immensely well suited toward. With any luck, they might even help her rid herself of Robert some day.

Once she had soaked out the soreness, Cersei dressed in one of her finest gowns, a dark green that brought out the color of her eyes, and might also put Renly off his guard, since it was the color of his lover's house. 

There were plans to be made, to be sure, but she also wanted to see for herself if Renly was still plotting against her. She could think of no better way than to get him talking of the potential marriage of his lover's sister. If he still hopped to marry her to Robert, then surely she would sense his feelings during the conversation.

“Have you heard from your rose lately?”

Renly smiled and his eyes took on a far-off look. “I have, your Grace.”

“And how go the negotiations for his sister's hand?”

“Oh, quite well from the sounds of things, although nothing official has been announced. Loras tells me that she and the Stark boy are nearly inseparable.”

“And he mentioned that your husband and children have finally arrived at Winterfell as well.” Renly added.

“Hmf. It's about time,” Cersei replied as if she had not already heard the same from Jaime days ago.

“Loras tells me one of the younger Stark boys has taken to following your brother around begging for stories about the kingsguard. Joffery seems bored, but Myrcella and Tommen are enjoying their stay in Winterfell.”

Jaime hadn't mentioned that, perhaps he had not noticed taken much notice of the children. He tried his best not to spend time with her children when Robert was around after all.

“Of course Joffery is bored. What could there be of interest for him in Winterfell?” Cersei was more surprised that her two youngest weren't completely bored as well. What could they possibly find interesting at Winterfell?

“From what Loras says, he had hoped Stark would consider a betrothal between his daughter and Joffery.”

“Preposterous. I won't have it! Joff deserves better than some wild northern bitch.”

“Neither will Lord Stark. Apparently the girl is already betrothed, and his other daughter married.”

“Married? Isn't she too young for that. Neither of the girls is older than Joffery, are they?”

“No. It was unclear if it was the younger or older one who was married, but it seems her youth was the subject of much gossip not long before they arrived.”

“The northerners are little more than savages. Why should we be surprised if they marry off their daughters as soon as they are weaned? It's a good thing the girls are already dispose of, there's no telling what Robert might do otherwise.”

“Indeed. Are you still thinking of pairing Joffery with Myrcella then?”

“I am.” Cersei replied smuggly. “It may be unpopular, so I won't speak of it for now. But who else would be good enough for my son? For our future king? Even Robert must see that there are no eligible young women, why else would he suggest the Stark girl?”

“I hear she is quite beautiful...” Renly put in.

“They said that about her dead aunt once as well, but that was not a true beauty. She was wild and exotic and young. If she had lived she would have outgrown whatever passed for beauty before long. I 'm sure she would have found my husband bored with her charms even faster than I did.” That was a lie, of course. Robert has still been in love with Lyanna on their wedding night. But she didn't think he was a man who could truly love a woman. The sheer number of whores he visited testified to that. If he had been a different kind of man, perhaps she could have tamed him just as she had tamed Jaime.

“Loras also mentioned there has been some talk about another Stark marriage. One I think you should know about. Myrcella and the younger boy, Bran. The one who follows Jaime everywhere.”

That took Cersei by surprise. Robert was ready to sell their only daughter so soon? And to a boy who was barely more than a toddler at that. What possible benefit would there be to such a marriage? She had to stop that from happening.

“My husband stumbles from one folly to another. Myrcella is not meant to marry a younger son, and certainly not so far away, or in such a savage land. Has Stark refused that match as well?”

“Loras did not say. It may be that he is entertaining the idea.”

“We can't allow that to happen.”

“No. Of course not.” Renly agreed. “Perhaps if you were to announce the betrothal of Joffery and Myrcella at the singer's tourney next week...”

“No, I cannot do that yet. The people are not ready to see the sense of the marriage yet. They will come to love me enough in time, and want nothing to do with any rulers who are not my own children, but it is too soon.”

“I would not be so certain, your Grace. Did you not hear them cheering you? Perhaps Varys has mentioned the tavern songs about your wisdom and beauty?”

“I heard one of those myself, earlier today.” Cersei contemplated the possibility, but dismissed it. There had to be another way to keep Myrcella away from the Starks.

“They love you, your Grace. You could have your marriage if you wanted it.”

“I will think on what you have said.” Cersei considered the idea ill-conceived. Her popularity was growing, but her father had taught her how little the love of the people meant. It was a fleeting thing. She did not want to announce the betrothal so long before it could become an actual marriage. The people's opinions could always turn on her. 

No, better to write to Jaime and tell him to take the Stark boy as a squire. That might give her husband hope, having the boy come to King's Landing and be near Myrcella. Robert and his friend could make plans, but she would make sure that her plans were announced first. Or that the boy had an accident that would put an end to any plans before they came to fruition. 

But, better yet, why not make Joffery a knight. The Stark boy could be his squire, and in time a loyal member of Joff's kingsguard. Just like Arthur Dayne and Prince Rhaegar had been... first boyhood friends and then a loyal protector. A loyal protector sworn to take no wife.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besides having a ton to learn for my new job - this chapter has been, dare I say, a bitch, to write. I have not given up on the story though. It's only going slowly.


End file.
